REPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT PLAYS 
BY BRITISH AND IRISH AUTHORS 



\ 

EEPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT PLATS 

BY BRITISH AND IRISH 

AUTHORS 



SELECTED, WITH BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES^ 
BY 

BARRETT H. CLARK 



N ON-REFER T 




awvAD • ais 



BOSTON 
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 

1921 






Copyright, 1921, 
By Little, Brown, and Compant. 



All rights reserved 
Published October, 1921 



Pbinted in the United States op Amkbica 



OCl 22 IS21 
0)CLA627352 



PREFACE 

The present is a companion volume to "Representative 
One-Act Plays by American Authors", edited by Margaret 
Gardner Mayorga and published in 1919. The book was 
originally undertaken by Mr. Clayton Hamilton who, finding 
himself unable to continue the work, turned it over to the 
present editor. 

It is the duty of the present editor to record — as editors 
have before him recorded — that Barrie and Shaw must be 
excluded from collections of this sort, for reasons which others 
have euphemistically described as *' limitations of copyright." 
One-act plays of Barrie and Shaw would have been made an 
integral part of this collection had the authors and their 
publishers seen fit to cooperate on a basis similar to that 
accepted by other authors and publishers; they did not, 
and the reader is therefore asked to fill in the breach as best 
he can. 

To those who have under||[«d the purpose of this book and 
helped both the editor, ancmro publisher to make it as truly 
representative as possible, gratitude is hereby specifically 
acknowledged. Henry Arthur Jones, Granville Barker, 
Harold Brighouse, Lady Gregory, Alfred Sutro, Arnold 
Bennett, Laurence Housman, Sir Arthur Pinero, Elizabeth 
Baker, St. John Ervine, and Lord Dunsany have kindly 
corrected lists of their plays and furnished valuable data. 
Mr. E. M. Anderson, Mr. Harold Brighouse, and Mr. 
Harold Veasey have spared no pains in revising lists and fur- 
nishing data on the late Elizabeth Robins, Stanley Houghton, 
and Oliphant Down, respectively. Mr. Clayton Hamilton's 
assistance and advice on many matters and Mr. T. R. 
Edwards' cooperation in securing the rights of many English 
plays are thankfully acknowledged. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface v 

The One-act Plat in England and Ireland . . . ix 

The Widow op Wasdale Head. Sir Arthur Pinero . . 3 

The Goal. Henry Arthur Jones ...... 43 

Salome. Oscar Wilde 69 

The JNIan in the Stalls. Alfred Sutro .... 107 
'Op-o'-Me- Thumb. Frederick Fenn and Richard Pryce . . 131 
The Impertinence of the Creature. Cosmo Gordon- 
Lennox 161 

^The Stepmother. Arnold Bennett 175 

V -T Rococo. Granville Barker 197 

James and John. Gilbert Cannan 229 

-''The Snow Man. Laurence Hous man 247 

< Fancy Free. Stanley Houghton 265 

Lonesome- LIKE. Harold Brighouse 283 

Miss Tassey. Elizabeth Baker 305 

\^ Makeshifts. Gertrude Robins 323 

The Maker of Dreams. Oliphant Downs .... 345 

— The Land OF Heart's Desire. William Butler Yeats . . 367 

Riders to the Sea. J. M. Synge . ... . . 391 

Spreading the News. Lady Gregory 409 

The Magnanimous Lover. St. John G. Ervine . . . 431 

y The Golden Doom. Lord Dunsany 455 

Bibliographical Notes 473 

One-act Plays by English and Irish Dramatists . . 476 



THE ONE-ACT PLAY 
IN ENGLAND AND IRELAND 

DESPITE the many inducements and encouragements 
now offered to the writer of one-act plays, I dare risk 
the statement that in the British Isles (and even in America) 
the one-act play occupies an anomalous position, and that 
it has yet to be accepted as an altogether legitimate and 
respectable form of drama. I am well aware that for a gen- 
eration the Abbey Theater in Dublin and for many years 
the Gaiety Theater in Manchester have each not only pro- 
duced one-act plays of merit, they have practically created 
"schools" of dramatists whose finest work is to be found in 
the one-act form. Still, despite facts to which I am by 
no means blind, I should like to record my impression that 
the one-act play, throughout the English-speaking world, has 
yet to win and hold its place in the public esteem. 

The refutations to my statement are numerous and 
weighty; this volume itself seems to belie my words: Synge 
and Yeats, Barker and Ervine, Lady Gregory and Elizabeth 
Robins are undoubtedly the products of theaters that have 
made it a business to encourage the writing of one-act plays. 
Suppose I put it differently. 

In France, for instance, one may pass as an artist and a 
gentleman as well as the author of a score of one-acters; in 
Germany there are — or were — half a dozen reputable drama- 
tists whose chief claim to celebrity rested upon one or two 
volumes of one-act plays; in Spain and France there 
are theaters where none but short plays are ever pro- 
duced. In England and America I can think of no dramatist 
whose fame rests entirely, or even principally, upon one-act 



THE ONE-ACT PLAY 



plays. Eugene O'Neill can scarcely be said to have "arrived" 
until his first long play, "Beyond the Horizon", reached 
Broadway; this in spite of his previous honorable record 
as the author of a dozen short plays of unusual merit. 

And you may cite Barrie, whose one-act plays at their 
best are fully up to the standard of the long plays; but ask 
yourself whether Barrie's fame rests upon "Rosalind" and 
"Pantaloon" or upon "The Little Minister" and "The Ad- 
mirable Crichton".? I shan't say that the public is right: 
I express merely my opinion as to what it thinks — or did 
think until recently. 

The attitude of the public is rapidly changing; to-day the 
one-act play has come almost to be accepted as an inde- 
pendent art-form — by the general play going public, that is. 
I am not here speaking of the Earnest Thinkers who build 
Little Theaters; they are inclined to take the one-acter too 
seriously, largely because it is an altogether easier form to 
cope with than the long play, offering wider opportunity 
to dabbling amateurs. The Earnest Thinkers, however, to 
give them due credit, have undoubtedly opened the way for 
a keener appreciation and more intelligent appraisal of the 
form than was possible under the old system, where the 
"curtain raiser" was usually no more than a by-product 
written for the purpose of killing time. 

Barrie and Synge and most of the dramatists who are 
represented in the present volume deserve the highest praise 
for bringing about the rehabilitation of the one-act form, 
for it is to them that a growing respect for the neglected 
one-acter is due. These men — and women — have taken 
the single act and made of it an independent art-work; 
they have not used it merely as a repository for discarded 
scenes from long plays, or considered it as an entertainment 
for the pit; they have deigned to study the form, and have 
been rewarded by finding it a delightful and effective medium 
for the expression of dramatic ideas quite as dignified if not 
as full and plastic as the three-act or the four-act form. 

Nowadays every aspiring dramatist is given an oppor- 



THE ONE-ACT PLAY xi 

tunity of entering the theater the easiest way: that is, 
by writing a one-act play. That this has not always been 
so is evident in the words of the veteran dramatist, 
Henry Arthur Jones who, a few years ago, published in book 
form three one-act plays with a preface of Shavian pro- 
portions. No one speaks with greater authority than Mr. 
Jones, whose plays are known to playgoers throughout the 
Anglo-Saxon world. In the Preface to "The Theater of 
Ideas" he says: 

"It is a discouraging sign that neither on the English nor 
American stage is there any demand for one-act plays. 
These should be widely supported, as a valuable school for 
young playwrights and young actors. *The Goal' was 
written in 1897, and I had to wait seventeen years before I 
could get anything approaching a suitable representation." 
"The Goal", you will remark in passing, was produced in 
New York, by an American company. These lines were 
written in 1915, when they had just ceased to convey the 
whole truth. When "The Goal" was written, however, they 
were lamentably true. That little play was an outcast, in 
spite of the fact that Mr. Jones was known as the author of 
"The Silver King" and "The Liars." 

Now "The Goal" is a very ably constructed and effective 
play, but I cannot help thinking that Mr. Jones would not 
claim for it the same measure of artistic merit as, say, for 
"The Liars" or "Dolly Reforming Herself." Is it not likely 
that when he wrote "The Goal", without, as was doubtless 
the case, any definite market in view for it, he regarded it 
as a by-product, a dramatic incident which he could not at 
the time work into another "Mrs. Dane's Defence".'^ Do I 
presume when I say that "The Goal" and "Grace Mary" 
and "Her Tongue", the three plays included in "The Theater 
of Ideas", are the unconsidered trifles of a serious dramatist, 
the products of his "lost moments"? 

Perhaps Mr. Jones regards these plays as children that 
have never had a chance, children for whom there was 
no school? That he does not look upon them as fin- 



xii THE ONE-ACT PLAY 

ished masterpieces is evident from his remarks on "Her 
Tongue", which "pleasantly occupied me during a leisure 
week in Spain a few years ago." If Henry Arthur Jones 
were beginning his career to-day, he would not, I venture to 
believe, have thrown off a one-acter "during a leisure week 
in Spain"; he would, I am sure, have burned the midnight 
oil in London for six weeks and spent his vacation in Spain 
studying Velasquez. He would also find a dozen theaters 
ready to produce "The Goal", and not have to say of 
another product of his leisure hours, "however unlike it may 
be to Shakespearean tragedy" it would "probably be equally 
successful in keeping people out of the theater." 

In other words, Mr. Jones has never taken the one-act 
form seriously. Why should he.^* He was not writing plays 
for antiquity, but for living actors and managers who pay 
for effective dramas. Mr. Jones' early contemporaries wrote 
one-act plays, but of what sort.? Curtain raisers for the 
most part; and a curtain raiser is frankly a sop to the pit. 
That Mr. Jones refused to write curtain raisers is readily 
understood; that he refused to turn seriously to the writing 
of one-act plays not designed to amuse the pit is likewise 
conceivable. Mr. Jones' contribution to the modern drama 
is sufficient as it is; we do not ask him to write one- 
act masterpieces; he was ready to do so at one time, when 
there was no one to use them; to-day he must be content 
merely to observe radically different conditions, and recog- 
nize the fact that times have changed. 

If there were no manager to welcome the author of 
"Michael and his Lost Angel" as a writer of one-act plays, 
there was fortunately an Abbey Theater ready and eager to 
demand of Synge his "Riders to the Sea." To the fact that 
there was such a theater in Ireland we owe the masterpieces 
of Yeats and Lady Gregory and the other Irish dramatists; 
and it is by no means certain that had it not been for Miss 
Horniman's Gaiety Theater, Stanley Houghton and Harold 
Brighouse might have remained at their desks in business 
offices. 



THE ONE-ACT PLAY xiii 

If, then, there is finally a place for the production of one- 
act plays; if, as is evident, the one-act form is gradually 
being accepted as a "respectable" dramatic medium, I am 
convinced that the change is due largely to the fact that the 
one-act form is being accorded the respect due it by the 
dramatists themselves. And this in turn is due largely to 
the fact that a place has been made for the form. The wide 
gulf between literature and the drama has begun to be 
bridged: Yeats and Synge and Barrie have seen to that. 

Bakbett H. Clark 
June, 1921. 



REPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT PLAYS 
BY BRITISH AND IRISH AUTHORS 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE 
HEAD 

SIR ARTHUR PINERO 

Arthur Wing Pinero — now Sir Arthur Pinero — was born 
at London in 1855. Trained at first for the law, he remained 
in his father's law office until he was nineteen, when he be- 
came an actor with Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham, playing minor 
roles for a year in Edinburgh. His next venture was in Liver- 
pool. In 1876 he came to London and played at the Globe 
Theater. He then entered Irving's company and remained 
at the Lyceum for five years. During this time the young 
actor had been writing plays, the first of which, "£200 a 
Year", was produced at the Globe in 1877. " Daisy's Escape " 
and "Bygones" were produced a short time after at the 
Lyceum. The success of "Daisy's Escape" and the convic- 
tion that he was not destined to become a great actor induced 
him, according to one of his biographers, to abandon acting 
and devote himself entirely to the writing of plays. 

"The Squire" (1881) is the first of Pinero's plays that 
showed promise. The following year William Archer wrote 
of Pinero as "a thoughtful and conscientious writer with 
artistic aims, if not yet with full command of his artistic 
means." The "artistic means" rapidly developed, for in 
the farces "Dandy Dick", "The Schoolmistress", and 
"The Magistrate" the dramatist revealed extraordinary 
skill and a natural bent for comedy. "Sweet Lavender" 
and "The Profligate", plays of a more serious character, 
followed in the late eighties. ' ' The Second Mrs . Tanqueray ' ' 
was acclaimed in 1893 as the finest English play of the time. 
It is indubitably one of the most effective plays of that 
generation 



4 



THE WIDOW OP WASDALE HEAD 



Pinero is master of the dramatic medium he has chosen 
to develop. That medium has been often criticized as formal, 
old-fashioned, conventional; the criticism is in some respects 
not unwarranted, though the spirit in which it is made is rather 
an indication of a desire to applaud other dramatists who 
have departed from Pinero's methods than properly to judge 
his achievements. Pinero is not a propagandist or a special 
pleader; he has no aim other than to write effective plays 
about the men and women of his time as he sees them. 

Pinero's one-act plays are not an integral part of his 
work, but they are interesting by-products. Written for 
particular occasions, they reveal the skilled hand of an ac- 
complished dramatist. 



PLAYS 



Plays marked with * are in one act only. 



*£200aYear (1877) 
*Two Can Play at That 
Game (1877) 

The Comet (1878) 
♦Daisy's Escape (1879) 
♦Hester's Mystery (1880) 
♦Bygones (1880) 

The Money-Spinner (1880) 

Imprudence (1881) 

The Squire (1881) 

Girls and Boys (1882) 

The Rector (1883) 

Lords and Commons (1883) 

The Rocket (1883) 

Low Water (1884) 

The Ironmaster (1884) 
(Adaptation) 

In Chancery (1884) 

The Magistrate (1885) 



Mayfair (1885) 
(Adaptation) 
The Schoolmistress (1886) 
The Hobby-Horse (1886) 
Dandy Dick (1887) 
Sweet Lavender (1888) 
The Weaker Sex (1889) 
The Profligate (1889) 
The Cabinet Minister 

(1890) 
Lady Bountiful (1891) 
The Times (1891) 
The Amazons (1893) 
The Second Mrs. Tanque- 

ray (1893) 
The Notorious Mrs. Ebb- 
smith (1895) 
The Benefit of the Doubt 
(1895) 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 5 

The Princess and the But- The " Mind-the-Paint " Girl 

terfly (1897) (1902) 

Trelawney of the "Wells" *The Widow of Wasdale 

(1898) Head (1912) 

The Gay Lord Quex (1899) *Playgoers (1913) 
Iris (1901) The Big Drum (1915) 

Letty (1903) *Mr. Livermore's Dream 
A Wife Without a Smile (1917) 

(1904) The Freaks (1918) 

His House in Order (1906) *Monica's Blue Boy (1918) 
The Thunderbolt (1908) (Wordless play to music 

Mid-Channel (1909) by Sir Frederic Cowen) 

Preserving Mr. Panmure Quick Work (1919) 

(1911) 

"The Magistrate", "The Schoolmistress", "The Hobby- 
Horse", "Sweet Lavender", "The Weaker Sex", "The 
Profligate", "The Cabinet Minister", "Lady Bountiful", 
"The Times", "The Amazons", "The Second Mrs. Tanque- 
ray", "The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith", "The Gay Lord 
Quex", "Iris", "Letty", "A Wife Without a Smile", "His 
House in Order", "The Thunderbolt", "Mid-Channel", 
"Preserving Mr. Panmure", "The 'Mind-the-Paint' Girl", 
and "The Big Drum" are published separately by Walter 
H. Baker, Boston; "The Benefit of the Doubt" and "Tre- 
lawney of the 'Wells'", by the Dramatic Publishing Com- 
pany, Chicago; "The Money-Spinner", "The Squire", "The 
Rocket", "In Chancery", "Hester's Mystery", "The 
Princess and the Butterfly", and "Playgoers", by Samuel 
French, New York. — "The Social Plays of Arthur Wing 
Pinero", of which three volumes have already appeared, 
under the editorship of Clayton Hamilton, includes "The 
Second Mrs. Tanqueray", "The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith", 
"Letty", "Iris", "His House in Order", and "The Gay Lord 
Quex." These volumes are published by E. P. Dutton and 
Company, New York. 

References: Hamilton Fyfe, "Arthur Wing Pinero", 



6 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

Greening and Company, London; William Archer, "Real 
Conversations", William Heinemann, London; Oscar Heer- 
mann, "Living Dramatists", Brentano's, New York; George 
Moore, "Impressions and Opinions", Brentano's; Cecil F. 
Armstrong, "From Shakespeare to Shaw", Mills and Boon, 
London; Clayton Hamilton, "Studies in Stagecraft", "The 
Theory of the Theater", Henry Holt and Company, New 
York, and "Introduction and Notes to The Social Plays of 
Arthur Wing Pinero", E. P. Dutton and Company, New 
York; Brander Matthews, "Inquiries and Opinions", 
Charles Scribner's Sons, and "A Study of the Drama", 
Houghton, Mifflin Company, Boston; Arthur Pinero, 
"Robert Louis Stevenson, The Dramatist", Dramatic 
Museum, Columbia University, New York, and "Browning 
as a Dramatist", London (privately printed). 

Magazines: Munsey's, vol. x, p. 247, New York; Book- 
buyer, vol. xvii, p. 301, New York; Forum, vol. xxvi, p. 119, 
vol. xlvii, p. 494, New York; Theater, vol. xxxiv, p. 3, New 
York; Nation, vol. Ixxxiii, p. 211, New York; North American 
Review, vol. clxxxviii, p. 38, New York; Critic, vol. xxxvii, 
p. 117, New York; Collier's Weekly, vol. xlviii, p. 34, New 
York; Living Age, vol. cclxxviii, p. 265, Boston; Blackwood's, 
vol. clxvii, 837, London. 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

A FANTASY 



By ARTHUR PINERO 



"The Widow of Wasdale Head" was first produced at 
London in 1912. 

Characters 

Sib John Hunslet 
Mk. Edward Fane 
Tubal (A servant at the inn) 
Reuben (Sir John's man) 
The Visitor 
Mrs. Jesmond 

Scene: A room in an inn at Wasdale Head in Cumberland, 
Time: In the reign of George the Third. 



CoPTmiaHT, 1912, by Arthtib Pinebo. 

All rights reserved 

Reprinted from the private copy, "not for circulation", by special arrangement with 
Sir Arthur Pinero, who controls all the rights to the play. 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

A gloomy, ancient room, partly panelled in oak, of the time 
of Henry the Eighth. Its ceiling, heavy with massive beams, 
is blackened by age; and altogether the apartment, which bears 
the appearance of having once belonged to a private mansion, is 
fallen considerably into decay. In the wall on the right there 
is a cavernous fireplace; facing the spectator is a deep bay- 
window, heavily shuttered and barred; on the left of the window, 
against the further wall, a steep staircase mounts to a landing 
from which a door opens into a narrow passage; and under the 
landing, in the left-hand wall and on the level of the floor, there 
is another door, also admitting to a passage. 

In the middle of the room there is a round table vyith a chair on 
its right and left. A decanter of red wine and some glasses, a jar 
of tobacco and a tray of clay pipes, and a candlestick of two 
branches are on the table. Against the wall on the left, a chair 
on each side of it, is an escritoire, and on the top of the escritoire 
is a standish; and against the staircase, concealing the space 
beneath, there is an oaken dresser bright with crockery ware, 
pewter dishes and plates, and other utensils. In the bay of 
the window are a small table and stool. A riding-cloak is 
thrown over the stool, and lying upon the table are a hat, a riding- 
whip, a pair of gauntlets, and two pistols in their holster-cases. 
A capacious arm-chair stands before the fireplace, and within 
the fireplace, at the further side, there is a chimney-seat. A 
clock and a chest filled with logs occupy spaces against the 
right-hand wall; and on the wall against which runs the flight 
of stairs a number of hunting trophies are arranged, including 
a hunting-horn hanging by a cord from a nail. 



10 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

The room is lighted by the candle on the round table and by 

candles in sconces attached to the wall on the left} A fire is 

burning. 

Seated at the round table, the one smoking and drinking, the 

other deep in thought, are Sir John Hunslet and Edward Fane. 

Tubal is engaged at the dresser. The wind is moaning. 

SIR JOHN {A gallant-looking gentleman of eight-and-twenty, 
accoutred in a handsome riding-dress and a periwig — on 
the left of the table) Ned, my dear fellow, you don't 
drink! 

EDWARD {A grave young man of twenty-five, richly but soberly 
attired and wearing his own dark hair — rousing himself and 
filling his glass) A thousand pardons, Jack! (Drinking) 
Welcome! 

[Tubal, bearing a pair of snuffers upon a dish, advances to 
the round table and trims the candles. The moaning of the 
wind rises to a howl. 

SIR JOHN (to Tubal). A wild night, my friend. 

TUBAL (A venerable, wizen figure, half groom, half waiter). 
Aye, an' 'tis like t' be warser afwore mworn. Theer'll be 
sleMs lowsed an' fleein' this neet, depend on't. Heav'n 
send th' chimley-stacks do hod oot ! 

SIR JOHN. Amen! (Tubal replaces the snuffers upon the 
dresser. There is a sharp, shrill sound from without, resem- 
bling the cry of a bird) What is that? 

EDWARD. The sign of the house. 'Twill creak in that fashion, 
in the wind, for hours. 

SIR JOHN. 'Gad, an agreeable prospect! (Tubal, carrying a 
tray upon which are some remnants of a meal, goes out at the 
door under the landing. Sir John, glancing over his shoidder, 
assures himself that he and Edward are alone) At last! 
(Rekindling his pipe at the fiame of one of the candles) I 
thought that ancient servitor would never leave us. (Ed- 
ward rises and, walking away, stands gazing into the fire) 
And now, my dear Ned — my very dear Ned — in amicitid 

1 Throughout, "right" and "left" are the spectators' right and left, not 
the actor's. 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 11 

autem nihil fictum, as we learned to say at school — let me 
inform you without further delay of the cause of this in- 
trusion. 

EDWARD. 'Tis no intrusion; and, to be candid, I have 
guessed the object of your visit already. 

SIR JOHN. Indeed? That being the case 

EDWARD. Confound you. Jack, you don't suppose I attribute 
your sudden and unlooked-for appearance to mere inclina- 
tion for a gossip over a bottle! A man — Jack Hunslet 
least of all — does not quit town at this time of the year, 
journeying three hundred miles into the bargain, without 
an urgent reason. {Facing Sir John) Confess you are 
upon a mission. 

SIR JOHN (smiling). Since you press me 

EDWARD. You are sent by my mother. 

SIR JOHN. The poor fond lady is vastly concerned at your 
absence, 

EDWARD. In the name of patience, why? Her letters 
plague me to death, Jack. 

SIR JOHN. My good Ned, do, I entreat, reflect. With your 
usual perspicacity you have just observed that it must be 
a strong inducement that draws a town man into the 
country at this season. And yet 

EDWARD. Such an inducement was mine. I came into 
Cumberland in fulfilment of a pledge to Sir Roger Boult- 
wood — a pledge of long standing 

SIR JOHN. To be his guest at Hawkshead Priory. Your stay 
at Hawkshead ended two months ago. 

EDWARD. In the meanwhile I had become bitten by the 
romantic beauty of the district. By the Lord, Jack, 'tis a 
lovely locality, in spite of flood and tempest ! 

SIR JOHN. Ah, I am forgetting you are a poet, and a mon- 
strous pretty one to boot! 

EDWARD. Pshaw! Pray don't roast me for my follies. 

SIR JOHN (laying his pipe aside). My dear fellow, if our 
follies ceased with the scribbling of verses, we should be 
warranted in esteeming ourselves wise. (Rising) And so 



12 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

'tis solely the beauty of the district that detains you, hey, 
Ned? 

EDWARD. Chance directed me to this particular spot; and 
my nag falling lame almost at the door here 

SIR JOHN (approaching Edward). You determined to cul- 
tivate the muse, and to seek inspiration, by this sombre 
lake; (producing his snuff-box) putting up at a bare inn, 
(significantly) and despatching your servant back to Kens- 
ington within a fortnight. 

EDWARD (embarrassed). Why, as forth at, I — I found I had 
little need for Gregory. He did but kick his heels about 
the place discontentedly. 

SIR JOHN (taking snuff). The sublimity of the scene proving 
less attractive to him than to his master. (Closing his 
snuff-box) Well? 

EDWARD. W-Well? 

SIR JOHN. And when I have made my compliments at 
Hawkshead and, with your aid, explored this enchanting 
neighbourhood, do we travel home in company? (There is 
a momenfs hesitation on Edward's part, and then he moves to 
the middle of the room without speaking. Sir John looks 
after him inquiringly) Ned! 

EDWARD (hanging his head). Forgive me, Jack. I declare 
again 'tis the most beautiful district in the kingdom; 
nevertheless, I am deceiving you. Jack, woefully. 
[The door under the landing opens and Mrs. Jesmond enters 
followed by Tubal, the latter carrying a bowl of steaming 
punch, and instantly the wind increases in force and the sign- 
board resumes its squeaking. The loud slamming of distant 
doors is also heard. Mrs. Jesmond is an elegant, girlish 
young lady, charmingly but simply dressed. She curtsies to 
Sir John and to Edward and then takes the bowl from Tubal 
and places it upon the round table. 

MRS. JESMOND (to Tubal). Secure the doors of the buttery. 
Tubal; 'tis they that are banging. (Tubal shuffles out and 
Mrs. Jesmond addresses Sir John, who is regarding her with 
respectful amazement. The wind lulls) I am sorry I was not 



THE WIDOW OP WASDALE HEAD 13 

by to receive you, sir. Late as it was, I was at my farm at 
Burnthwaite where I am in trouble with some sick beasts. 
I hear you have rid from Ulverston to-day, which is a 
weary road. 

SIR JOHN (stammering). Why, yes, I — I 

EDWARD (presenting Sir John). This gentleman is my friend 
Sir John Hunslet 

MRS. JESMOND (curtscying again). Nay, if I had not been 
apprised of his arrival, there would be no necessity to name 
him. (Advancing to Sir John) I saw Sir John once, when 
I was a child, driving his curricle in Hyde Park, and am 
never likely to forget the fine show he made. 

SIR JOHN (bowing low) . Madam, I — I — I am vastly honoured 
by your recollection of the circumstance. 

MRS. JESMOND. Mr. Fane is heartily glad to see you here. 
Sir John; of that I am assured. Wasdale Head is but a 
stern and solitary spot at all times, and March our drea- 
riest month. ^ 

SIR JOHN. 'Faith, ma'am, Mr. Fane is no more rejoiced to 
see me than I him. We were condiscipuli at Winchester 
College and I hold him in great affection. (Bowing again 
profoundly) And suffer me to add that it increases my 
happiness in no inconsiderable degree 

MRS. JESMOND (turning to Edward merrily). La! I fear Sir 
John doth not even yet apprehend who and what I am. 
Pray enlighten him. 

EDWARD (on the left). Mrs. Jesmond, Jack, is mistress of 
this inn and tenant also of lands adjacent to it. (Another 
how from Sir John, whose wonderment increases) 'Twill 
make you better acquainted with her when I tell you that 
she was Miss Woodroffe — Miss Elizabeth Woodroffe of 
Appleby. 

SIR JOHN. One of the Woodroffes of Appleby ! (Seizing Mrs. 
Jesmond' s hand) My dear madam! 

MRS. JESMOND (withdrawing her hand). Nay, sir; my family 
and I are at enmity. (Mournfully) Widow of Mr. Henry 
1 Wasdale: — pronounced WassdaXe, the o as in was. 



14 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

Jesmond of Egremont; I prefer that description. 

SIR JOHN. A widow, ma'am ! 

MRS. JESMOND (dropping another curtsey). Two years a 
widow, and a humble taverner and farmer; and at your 
service. (To Edward) I have brought you a bowl of 
punch, Mr. Fane, thinking it will be grateful to your 
friend after his long journey. (To Sir John) 'Tis of my 
mixing, and I beg your indulgence for the widow's offering. 

SIR JOHN. 'Gad, madam, I swear you shall join us! (To 
Edward, who goes to the dresser) A third glass, Ned! 

MRS. JESMOND (hastening to the staircase). Oh, mercy, Sir 
John ! 

SIR JOHN {following her and regaining possession of her hand) . 
I insist! (Leading her to the round table) On my knees I 

MRS. JESMOND (laugMug). Ha, ha, ha! 

[The wind howls again and the sign-board creaks. Edward 
carries three glasses to the table, and Mrs. Jesmond fills two 
of the glasses to the brim and hands them to the gentlemen who 
stand one on each side of her. As she ladles a little of the 
punch into the third glass, the wind abates. 

SIR JOHN (at the right of the table). Come, ma'am; bumpers! 
Ah, but that's not fair! Bumpers! (The men drink, and Mrs. 
Jesmond touches her lips with her glass) 'Pon my soul, 'tis 
delicious! 'Tis nectar! Ille facit dites animos deus, Ned; 
you remember! (To Mrs. Jesmond) Permit me to com- 
pliment you on your skill, ma'am. 

MRS. JESMOND (replenishing the men's glasses, modestly). The 
credit is none of mine. Sir John. (In a sad voice) 'Twas 
my dear Harry that taught me. 

SIR JOHN (coughing sympathetically). Ahem! Ahem! (Ab- 
ruptly) A toast! I call a toast, Ned! (Raising his glass 
and looking at Mrs. Jesmond with admiration) I give 
you 

MRS. JESMOND (quickly, raising her glass). The King! 

SIR JOHN. Why, certainly, ma'am; and I am obleeged to 
you for the reminder. His Most Gracious Majesty Eang 
George! 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 15 

EDWARD (drinking). The King! 

SIR JOHN {drinking). God bless him! (Looking at Mrs. Jes- 

mond again) Another! 
MRS. JESMOND. Nay, spare me! 
SIR JOHN. Ned ! (Raising his glass) To the Lady of Was- 

dale! 
EDWARD. The Lady of Wasdale! 

[The wind gives a sudden roar as the men drink the toast, and 

then subsides. 
MRS. JESMOND (curtscying once more). The widow thanks you, 

gentlemen, for your amiability; and with a full heart. 

(With a change of manner) And now, if you will excuse me, 

I will go to your bedchambers and see that your beds are 

properly prepared. 
SIR JOHN (seizing the candlestick from the round table) . Allow 

me to light you, ma'am. 
MRS. JESMOND (running up the stairs). 'Tis not necessary; a 

lantern hangs in the corridor. 

[She makes a final curtsey on the landing and withdraws, 

leaving Sir John half-way up the stairs where he remains for 

a while as if rooted. Edward walks over to the fireplace and 

again gazes down into the burning logs. 
SIR JOHN (after a silence). As I live, an adorable creature! 

(He descends the stairs softly, replaces the candlestick, and 

stands contemplating Edward) Ned! 
EDWARD. Jack? 
SIR JOHN. Ton my conscience, you are right; Wasdale is 

the most beautiful district in the kingdom! 
EDWARD (turning to him) . Ah, Jack, 'tis no matter for jesting. 
SIR JOHN. Jesting! I swear I am all seriousness. 
EDWARD (ardently). Nay, then, if you are in earnest, is she 

not charming? 
SIR JOHN. Charming? A divinity! (Walking about animatedly) 

'Gad, you may well describe this as a romantic locality! 

A Woodroffe of Appleby the mistress of a house of public 

entertainment! Prodigious! (Sitting in the chair on the left 

of the round table) How the devil ! 



16 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

EDWARD {coming to the right of the table) . 'Tis a simple story. 
Young Mr. Henry Jesmond of Egremont, having squan- 
dered the greater part of his patrimony, established him- 
self here, with what remained of his fortune, as farmer and 
innkeeper. A short time previously, he had met Miss 
Elizabeth Woodroffe at the Hunt Assembly at Kendal, and 
they had become desperately taken with each other. Her 
parents, discovering the undesirable attachment, inter- 
cepted communication between the lovers and confined 
their child within doors. Vain precautions! Elizabeth 
forced an escape, ran off with the object of her girlish 
infatuation, and married him. 

SIR JOHN. 'Faith, since she hath been two years a widow, 
he must have carried her to church in a go-cart! 

EDWARD. She was indeed but fifteen. She is little over 
seventeen now. 

SIR JOHN. The deuce! 'Twas a brief wedded life. 

EDWARD. A month. 

SIR JOHN. Good Lud ! 

EDWARD. Riding homeward on a dark night with some boon 
companions from the hunt at Muncaster, Mr. Jesmond was 
thrown and mortally hurt. He breathed long enough, so 
the tale is told, to take his pistol from its holster and to 
shoot his poor mare, who had broke a leg; and then he laid 
his head upon her warm ribs and stirred no more. 

SIR JOHN (shocked). My dear Ned! (Fastidiously) Leaving 
this delicately-bred young lady, estranged from her fam- 
ily, to brew punch, and to till the soil, for her subsistence ! 

EDWARD (sitting at the right of the table). Why, Jack, there's 
the wonder of it! Mrs. Jesmond's aptitude is amazing. 
Among the farmers hereabouts — statesmen, they term 
them in Cumberland — there's not one can match her in 
knowledge of crops and cattle. (TJie wind murmurs gently, 
almost musically) I have seen the oldest and wisest of them 
approach her, hat in hand, to ask her counsel in a difficulty; 
and her reply is always the same. 

SIR JOHN. The same? 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 17 

EDWARD. "Come back to me," she will say, "as soon as you 
please after Friday, and you shall have my advice/' 

SIR JOHN. Friday? 

EDWARD (checking himself and then nodding uneasily) . Er — 
'tis on a Friday night, when her household is abed and the 
inn is silent, that she sits here alone and reads her farming- 
manuals, and makes up her books of account, and puts on 
her consider ing-cap, as she phrases it. (Looking round) 
We are in her parlour, Jack. 

SIR JOHN (listening). How the wind sings! It hath a voice 
in it, positively! (To Edward) Her parlour? 

EDWARD (nodding again). Aye; the principal guest-chambers 
are shut throughout the winter, and so she hath placed her 
room at my disposal. Every Fiiday night, at the stroke 
of ten, I leave her here, preparing for her vigil. (Suddenly) 
What is to-day? 

SIR JOHN. Friday. 

[The wind utters a loud wail and the sign-hoard creaks. 

EDWARD (rising and glancing at the clock). And look; 'tis 
close on ten now. 

[He resumes his former position at the fireplace and the wind 
its tuneful murmuring. 

SIR JOHN (after another silence). Well, I own I am mightily 
relieved, Ned. (Rising) 'Tis precisely as I suspected — that 
you had become entangled in a petticoat; (going to the 
punch-bowl and helping himself to punch) but a Woodroffe 
of Appleby is naught to be ashamed of, though 'twill be 
the tittle-tattle of the clubs and tea-tables that your 
mistress hath kept a mug-house. (Drinking) Have you 
declared yourself yet? 

EDWARD (still staring into the fire). No. 

SIR JOHN (smacking his lips). 'Pon my honour, she is vastly 
genteel; she hath the bel air completely! I wager many 
of our town misses and madams — (He breaks off, regarding 
Edward with surprise. The wind ceases) Why, man, what 
ails you? If Mrs. Jesmond had declined your suit, you 
could hardly be more glum. 



18 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

EDWARD (confronting Sir John). Jack! 

SIR JOHN (startled at Edward's aspect). Ned? 

EDWARD. Oh, Jack, I must confide in you! I am in torture I 

SIR JOHN. Torture? 

EDWARD. Terrible, grinding torment ! 

SIR JOHN (joining Edward). Odds life, what's this! Have you 
discovered that the widow wears a false curl or two? 

EDWARD. For mercy's sake, don't take me lightly! (In a 
whisper) Jack, there is a mystery in this house. 

SIR JOHN. Confusion! 

EDWARD. A hideous mystery. (Passing Sir John and pacing 
the room on the left) And 'tis torturing me -driving me to 
distraction; and yet I lack the courage to attempt to un- 
ravel it. 

SIR JOHN (coming to the round table). Explain, Ned! 

EDWARD. Oh, Jack, 'tis true that I leave Mrs. Jesmond 
here, and alone, every Friday night; (halting) but — Heaven 
forgive me for doubting her ! — (laughing mirthlessly) ha, ha, 
ha, ha! — I fear she doesn't remain alone. Jack. 

SIR JOHN. The devil ! 

EDWARD (gripping the back of the chair at the left of the round 
table). Hell fury, no; unless she hath the habit of talking 
to herself, her vigil is no solitary one! 

SIR JOHN. Talking to herself! 

EDWARD (sitting and putting his elbows on the table and digging 
his fingers into his hair) . Ha, ha, ha, ha ! (Groaning) Oh, 
Jack, Jack! 

[Again there is a pause. Sir John slowly produces his snuff- 
box. 

SIR JOHN. Humph! (Tapping the box) 'Gad, you disappoint 
me, Ned; you do really! Who would have thought it of 
her? (Taking snuff) Pish! The jades; they are all of a 
pattern! (To Edward) When ? [The wind revives. 

EDWARD (raising his head). 'Twas the Friday night in the 
second week of my lodging here, and I had retired to my 
bedchamber carrying with me the delightful vision of her 
graceful, slender form as she sate, in this chair, bending over 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 19 

her books and papers. Some time after reaching my 
apartment, I recollected that I had left a letter from my 
mother lying upon the escritoire yonder; and I ordered my 
servant to fetch it. Presently the man reappeared, saying 
that, hearing Mrs. Jesmond's voice apparently in conver- 
sation, he had deemed it prudent not to risk incurring her 
displeasure by disturbing her. 

SIR JOHN. In conversation.'' 

EDWARD. I dismissed Gregory and stood for a while at my 
window, viewing the thick clouds scudding across the 
Pikes. Suddenly the idea possessed me to return, myself, 
to this room and recover my letter. Ha! The letter con- 
tained nothing of a private nature. I perceive now that 
'twas merely a feeling of jealous surprise that impelled me. 

SIR JOHN (his foot upon the rail of the chair on the right of the 
round table). You returned .f' 

EDWARD. Yes. My ear was at the door, and I was waver- 
ing whether I should rap, when I was arrested by a sound 
behind me; and there was my servant, sheltered in an angle 
of the corridor, watching me curiously. I made an idle 
remark and again retired to my room; and the next morn- 
ing I packed the fellow off to London, lest, his suspicions 
being aroused, he should play the spy on his own account. 

SIR JOHN. What had you heard while listening at the door? 

EDWARD. The low muttering of a voice, or of voices. I 
could distinguish nothing clearly, save that there was talk- 
ing. (Glancing at the door on the landing) The door is 
stout and, as you see, distant. 

SIR JOHN. And since then? 

EDWARD. Every Friday night 'tis the same. I steal to the 
door, hear the same whisperings, and slink back irreso- 
lutely to my bedchamber. Stay! Twice or thrice I have 
heard a soft, wailful note, as if from an instrument, pro- 
ceeding from this room. 

SIR JOHN (bringing himself erect). A signal! 

EDWARD. 'Sdeath, the thought hath crossed my mind ! (He 
rises and, ascending the stairs, removes the hunting-horn from 



20 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

its nail) 'Tis such an instrument as this that would pro- 
duce the sound. 

SIR JOHN {following Edward and standing by the dresser). A 
hunting-horn. , 

EDWARD. 'Twas the property of the late Mr. Jesmond, I 
suspect. (Doubtfully) But 'tis dull for want of 
use. 

SIR JOHN. Nay, 'tis you that are dull. Look if its mouth is 
bright. 
\ EDWARD (examining the mouth of the horn). Why, yes; the 
\ metal here shines like a guinea! 

SIR JOHN. Ha ! I lay five to four that is not the only mouth 
pressed by those lips of hers! (Edward replaces the horn 
and descends the stairs) My poor dear Ned, 'tis as plain 
as noonday; the widow's weekly vigil is but a ruse for 
entertaining her amoret at her ease. The trull! Fronti 
nulla fides! But you shall expose her, and to-night. (Look- 
ing at the door on the landing and then pointing to the fire) 
Quick; some ashes from the hearth! I'll fill the lock with 
'em and stop her turning the key. 

EDWARD (who is again at the fireplace gazing into the logs). 
There is no lock on either door. They are bolted from with- 
out. 

SIR JOHN. Strange! The widow is somewhat incautious. 
However, 'twill make your task the easier. (Edward faces 
Sir John with a gesture of protest) Come, man, away with 
your scruples! We will leave the pretty witch to her pre- 
tence of poring over her damnable books; and then you 
shall return and walk boldly in, and interrupt her at her 
devotions. 

EDWARD. By what right. Jack.'' 

SIR JOHN. Pshaw ! Do you imagine she isn't aware that you 
are honestly enamoured of her, though no word hath yet 
been spoke? There is title sufficient for you. (Sharply) 
Is your sword hanging in your bedchamber? 

EDWARD. Yes. 

SIB JOHN. Put it up at your side. 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 21 

EDWARD. Why, would you have me a murderer as well as 
an eavesdropper? 

SIR JOHN. 'Faith, I'd have you ready to defend yourself. A 
young lady of ton would scarcely dally with one of the clods 
of this beautiful district. {Going to the table in the bay of the 
window and examining the pistols) 'Tis to a gentleman of 
the road, probably — a cut-throat highwayman — that she 
extends her hospitality. (Taking up his hat, whip, and 
gauntlets, and carefully laying his cloak over the pistols) 
These pistols are well primed. I'll warn Reuben not to 
remove them. 

EDWARD (bursting out). Oh, Jack, Jack, 'tis impossible! ' 

SIR JOHN. Impossible? 

EDWARD (ivalking across the room). 'Tis impossible that 
she should be frail. I'll not believe it. She hath the look 
and the bearing of an angel. Her eyes. Jack! Did you 
observe her eyes? 

SIR JOHN (standing with his back to the fire). Hang 'em, they 
are brilliant! 

EDWARD. Nay, they're not brilliant. They resemble the 
blue of a summer morning ere the mist is dispelled. (Pac- 
ing up and down) Her voice too! Her voice! 

SIR JOHN. 'Tis most musical, I admit. 

EDWARD. Her voice hath the quality of the harp in it, when 
its strings are half muffled. (Fiercely) Mark me. Jack, if I 
find her no better than she should be, I'll never trust 



woman agam 



SIR JOHN (taking snuff). Ned 

EDWARD. Never! Never! 

SIR JOHN. Ned, I protest you recall Mr. Garrick to me, as 
the blackamoor in Shakespeare's play. 

EDWARD. Ah ! 

SIR JOHN. When the great little man quits the stage, you 
shall fill his place, my dear Ned; I vow you shall. 
[The wind sivells for a moment as Mrs. Jesmond enters at the 
door under the landing, followed by Tubal, with a lantern, 
and by Reuben who is carrying two lighted candles in candle- 



22 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

sticks. Tubal goes to the window and, raising the lantern 
above his head, passes his hand over the bars of the shutters. 

MRS. JESMOND (to Edward, sweetly but gravely). 'Tis past 
ten o'clock. {Glancing at Sir John) You have told Sir 
John? 

SIR JOHN (advancing a few steps). Why, yes, ma'am; and, 
to say the truth, I shall not be sorry to find myself in a 
soft bed, and between a pair of sweet-smelling sheets, at 
an earlier hour than is customable with me. 

REUBEN (a bluff, burly fellow — standing by the table). Nor I 
either, sir. For of all the clattering, gusty places I've ever 
laid in, this Wasdale is the gustiest and the clatteringest — 
(to Mrs. Jesmond) saving your presence, ma'am. 

SIR JOHN. Silence, Reuben! (To Mrs. Jesmond, with a wave 
of the hand towards Reuben) A good, faithful animal, Mrs. 
Jesmond, but plaguily rough-tongued. 

REUBEN. Well, sir, my tongue can't be rougher than the 
Cumberland weather; that's one comfort. (Going to Edward 
and presenting him with a candlestick as Mrs. Jesmond 
crosses to Sir John) You'd best shield it with your hand, 
Mr. Fane 

MRS. JESMOND (to Sir John). Good-night, Sir John. (Curt- 
seying) 'Tis mighty civil of you to profess your willing- 
ness to be sent to bed like a bad child. (Giving him her 
hand) You must dream you are in London, sir, and card- 
playing en petit comitS with some choice cronies. 

SIR JOHN (bending over her hand). Nay, madam, my dreams 
shall be of a far more interesting sort, I promise you. 
[She curtsies to him again and returns to Edward who is 
watching her narrowly. Tubal is now at the fireplace, 
mending the fire, and Reuben at the table in the bay 
window. 

MRS. JESMOND (giving her hand to Edward, a note of tenderness 
in her voice). Good-night, Mr. Fane. 

EDWARD (with downcast eyes). Good-night. 

[He moves away and Mrs. Jesmond goes to the escritoire and 
opens it with a key which dangles with others from her waist. 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 23 

Seeing that Reuben is taking up the riding-cloak and the 
pistols. Sir John hastens to him on tiptoe. 

SIR JOHN (under his breath, to Reuben). No! 

REUBEN (astonished). Sir! 

SIR JOHN (his finger to his lips) . Ssst ! (He motions to Reuben 
to replace the pistols and riding-cloak. Reuben does so) 
And now, my dear Ned — (taking his candle from Reuben 
and yawning demonstratively) ah-h-h-h! — I declare I am 
as sleepy as the veriest owl. (He signs to Edivard to pre- 
cede him, but Edward yields him the pas) My dear fellow! 
(He ascends the stairs, Edward following him, as Mrs. Jes- 
mond carries some books to the round table and deposits them 
there. Sir John makes her a grand bow from the landing, 
Edward a lesser one) My dear madam! 
[Mrs. Jesmond curtsies to them deeply and returns to the 
escritoire. Sir John and Edward retire. Tubal shuffles 
across the room on his way to the door under the 
landing. 

REUBEN (in a low voice, clapping Tubal on the back). Good- 
night, old buck! (Tubal has a fit of coughing) Why, a 
man of your kidney should be in London. You'd turn 
all the girls' heads in London within a week. (To 
Mrs. Jesmond, as he goes up the stairs) Good-night, 
ma'am, 

MRS. JESMOND (bringing more books and some papers to the 
table). Good-night, friend. 

[Reuben withdraws, closing the door. 

TUBAL (at the door under the landing, to Mrs. Jesmond). Be 
theer owt else I can do fer 'ee? 

MRS. JESMOND. No, I thank you, Tubal. Are the maids in 
their beds? 

TUBAL. Aye, an' deid asleeap, I reckon, t'hussies! Good- 
neet, mistress. 

MRS. JESMOND. Good-night. 

[Tubal disappears, closing the door, and the urind again be- 
comes violent and the sign-board squeals as if in pain. Mrs. 
Jesmond remains quite still for a while; then, deliberately and 



24 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

methodically, and with an altered look on her face, she clears 
the table of the punch-bowl, the decanter and glasses, and the 
pipes and tobacco — carrying them to the dresser — and fetches 
the standish from the escritoire. Having neatly set out her 
books and papers and the standish upon the table, she goes to 
the lower door, opens it a few inches and, after peeping along 
the passage, shuts the door silently. She repeats this proceed- 
ing at the door on the landing and finally, apparently satisfied, 
comes half-way down the stairs and unhooks the hunting-horn 
from the wall and blows a long, faint blast upon it; whereupon 
the wind gives a thundering bellow, the flames of the candles 
flicker, and for a moment there is almost total darkness. 
Then a bluish light pervades the room and the Ghost of a 
young man in hunting-dress and a bob-wig is seen, standing 
in an easy attitude with its back to the fire. There is another 
loud gust, followed by the crash of falling slates. 

MRS. JESMOND (regarding the Ghost with a tender expression and 
speaking in soft, caressing tones). That's the slates of the 
old lean-to in the stable-yard. 

GHOST (in a calm, matter-of-fact manner). Well, you mun 
ha' 'em put on again, Betty. Gi' th' job to Hobbs at Ulver- 
ston. I'm sick o' Finch of Gosforth; leastways I was, be- 
fore I met wi' my accident. 

[Mrs. Jesmond replaces the hunting-horn and descends the 
stairs. Gradually the wind drops. 

MBS. JESMOND. 'Tis a terrible night for you to be abroad, 
Hal. I had almost hoped you wouldn't obey my summons. 

GHOST (pulling off its filmy gloves). Eh, there you go, lass! 
How oft have I told thee th' weather makes no difference 
to me! (Gloomily) All weather's one t' a ghost. 

MRS. JESMOND (with a sigh). Yes, I forget. (Looking down 
at her books and papers) Shall we get to work? 

GHOST. Aye, sit thee doon. (She seats herself at the left of 
the table and chooses a pen from the standish) An' hark ye ! 
If these winds continue t' blow, thou'dst best bring th' 
ewe flock off th' fells into th' lowlands. D'ye hear? 

MRS. JESMOND, I hear, my dear. 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 25 

GHOST {taking out a spectral snuff-box and making a -pretence 

of snuffing). Is there aught amiss this week here or at 

th' farms? 
MRS. JESMOND. Four of the shorthorn bullocks at Burn- 

thwaite are lame from kibe. What am I to do for 'era? 
GHOST. Kibe! Why, I gave thee a remedy for kibe a year 

since. 
MRS. JESMOND (pouting). I know you did, Hal; but I failed 

to note it. 
GHOST (dusting its neckcloth with the phantom of a pocket- 
handkerchief). I'm sorely af eared you've no head, Betty; 

thou'rt but a heedless, gay-hearted wench. What ha' you 

an' th' lads been doing for 't? 
MRS. JESMOND. Rubbing tallow-fat betwixt the claws of the 

poor brutes. 
GHOST . Tallow-fat ! 
MRS. JESMOND. Y-y-y-ycs. 
GHOST. Zoiinds, I marvel you ha'n't rubbed in some o' th' 

sweet pomade thou hast sent thee from Lunnon for thy 

ringlets ! 
MRS. JESMOND (sheepishly). He, he, he, he! 
GHOST. Ods-bobs, you may well grin ! 'Twould vastly tickle 

me, were / alive. Come, dip thy pen in th' ink ! (Dictating) 

"Kibe." 

MRS. JESMOND {writing in a book). "Kibe " 

GHOST. "Anoint wi' blue vitriol an' hog's lard " 

MRS. JESMOND. "Blue vitriol " 

GHOST. Williams at St. Bridget's will sell thee blue vitriol. 

(She goes on writing) Mix th' stuff half-an'-half, an' within 

a fortnight th' beasts will be sound-footed. 
MRS. JESMOND (sanding her writing). Thank you, dear Harry. 
GHOST. What's thy next item, Bet? 
MRS. JESMOND (rummaging among her papers). The next ? 

(Breaking off and gazing at the apparition wistfully) Hal 

GHOST. Hey.'' 

MRS. JESMOND (in a voice full of yearning). Sit in thy chair 

to-night, yonder, while I am questioning thee, wilt thou? 



26 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

GHOST (with an air of patronage) . Certainly I will, child, if 
it will afford thee any gratification. (Seating itself in the 
arm-chair). 'Tis all th' same t' a ghost whether he be sit- 
ting or standing or lying. 

MRS. JESMOND. Yes, but it seems more domestic to see thee 
ensconced in what was thy accustomed seat. 

GHOST (throwing one leg over the other and sticking its thumbs 
in the armholes of its waistcoat). Which posture d'ye most 
fancy, Bet — this ? 

MRS. JESMOND (nodding). I remember thee in it con- 
stantly. 

GHOST (extending its legs and resting his fists on its hips). Or 
this? 

MRS. JESMOND. That was your position when you were en- 
gaged in argument. I had rather the other. (The Ghost re- 
sumes its previous attitude) Oh ! Oh, that I might fill thy 
pipe, and light it for thee at the candle, and slip the scarlet 
end of it into thy poor mouth, as I used to do ! 

GHOST. Nay, lass, that's talking sheer nonsense. (She 
presses her eyes with the back of her hand) Come, 'tis no 
good whimpering; whimpering won't mend matters. Get 
on wi' thy work. 

MRS. JESMOND (leaning back in her chair and beating her 
clenched hands on the table). Oh! Oh, how cold you are! 
How cold you are! 

GHOST (annoyed). Cold! 'Pon my soul, that's monstrously 
inconsiderate an' unkind! 

MRS. JESMOND. Ah, have I hurt thee? 

GHOST. Hurt me! 

MRS. JESMOND. I ask your pardon, Hal. 

GHOST. Nay, 'tis all very fine! (Rising) Thou know'st 'tis 
not in my power to console thee. 

MRS. JESMOND (suotching at her pen) Ah, you're not vanish- 
ing! You'll not vanish so soon! Harry! (The Ghost wags 
its head sulkily) Harry! Harry! 

GHOST. I'll not if thou'lt be reasonable an' polite, an' I can 
sarve thee. 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 27 

MRS. JESMOND. I Will be reasonable; I will be. Oh, 'tis as 
hard on you as on me that, being a shade, you cannot take 
me to your breast; and 'twas cruel of me to complain! I 
swear I won't offend again, Hal. 

GHOST (loftily, repeating its performance with the snuff-box). 
Proceed, then. 

MRS. JESMOND. Thank you, my dear, (Drying her eyes 
hurriedly and referring to a paper) Andrew Todd of Mickle 
Gill hath begged me to test an example of oats that he hath 
brought me. The germination of his oat-seed last season 
greatly discontented him. 

GHOST (curling its lip) . Zooks, but Andrew was ever a fool ! 

MRS. JESMOND (humUy). Nay, I am worse; for I am even 
more ignorant than Andrew how to make the test. 

GHOST. I'll tell 'ee. Tear two strips from thine old flannel- 
petticoat an' lay th' seed between 'em an' float 'em in a 
crock full o' water. (She again writes in her book) Stand th' 
vessel in thy sunniest window, an' in less than three days 
thou'lt be able to show Todd how many of his oats are 
speared. (With a hollow, vain laugh) Ha, ha, Maister 
Todd! 

MRS. JESMOND (throwing down her pen suddenly and leaning 
her head upon her hands). Oh, Hal, Hal! 

GHOST. Why, what's wrong wi' thee now? 

MRS. JESMOND. Alas, and alas, I am but an impostor! 

GHOST. Impostor? 

MRS. JESMOND (starting up and walking about). A cheat! I 
despise myself for fobbing off these dalesmen with the 
belief that 'tis I that helps them in their difficulties. 

GHOST. Why, 'tis you that do it, Betty, in sober truth. 

MRS. JESMOND (^reprovingly). Harry! 

GHOST. I say 'tis so. An' were I alive, I should be con- 
sumedly proud of you. Bet; I should, b' George, though I 
do upbraid thee on occasions when thou dost desarve it. 

MRS. JESMOND. Thou wert never logical, Harry! Were you 
alive, 'twould be known that the cleverness is all thine. 
(Leaning upon the dresser) Oh, 'twould relieve my con- 



28 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

science of a heavy burden, could I but reveal that you visit 
me in this manner! 

GHOST. An' scare th' folks for miles round ! Th' inn an' th' 
farms 'ud be shunned, an' thou'd be reduced to beggary. 

MRS. JESMOND (dejectedly). Oh! Oh! 

GHOST. Nay, you need ha' no qualms on that score, lass. 
'Tis lucky, I confess, that I had a bent for farming as well 
as for dicing an' cock-fighting; but husband an' wife are 
one, an' so, I take it, are a widow an' her husband's ghost, 
till she falls in love wi' another chap. {Drawing itself up) 
There's logic for thee! {The wind is heard again, and a 
whistle from the sign-hoard. The Ghost's expression changes) 
'Egad, but that reminds me, Bet ! 

MRS. JESMOND. Of what, Hal? 

GHOST {scowling). Speaking o' falling in love, th' young 
gentleman that quartered himself here two months ago is 
still under thy roof. {Her body slowly stiffens) Thou didst 
mention his name an' quality to me once 

MRS. JESMOND {turning to the Ghost, but avoiding its eyes). 
Mr. Edward Fane? He resides with his mother, who is 
wealthy, at Kensington in London. 

GHOST {with a sneer). That's him; a handsome, black young 
man, in 's own hair. 

MRS. JESMOND {advancing frigidly). Why, indeed, Mr. Fane 
wears neither wig nor powder; but, for the rest, I have 
scarce observed bis looks. 

GHOST. 'Faith, he hath obsarved thine! I've seen him 
through th' shutters, as I've rid past thy window on my 
grey mare, an' he hath been sitting opposite thee at table 
an' gazing at thee most fixedly. 

MRS. JESMOND {shrugging her shoulders). 'Tis when Mr. 
Fane and I have been playing a game of backgammon 
together that you must have remarked us. 

GHOST. Eh, so you play backgammon wi' him, do 'ee, Betty.'* 

MRS. JESMOND. To while away his evenings. {Fingering the 
back of the chair on the left of the round table) Wasdale hath 
few attractions for a man of fashion; and this one is so 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 29 

excellent a customer that 'tis worth taking some pains to 
divert him. 

GHOST. Nay, I wager he finds no lack of divarsion at Was- 
dale, or he'd not linger as he does. {Lowering at her) He's 
sweet on thee, lass, to a certainty. 

MRS, JESMOND (indignantly). Hal! 

GHOST. Aye, an' I warn thee, thou'lt be losing thy heart to 
him, if thou'rt not careful. 

MRS. JESMOND. Harry! 

GHOST (bitterly). An' then I shall hear th' blast o' th' horn 
no more o' Friday nights, in spite of all thy oaths an' 
tears an' protestations; an' thou'lt cast me aside, an' out 
o' thy thoughts, like thy worn padesoy ! 

MRS. JESMOND. Oh! Oh! As if I could ever be inconstant 
to thee, my first and last love! Shame on you, poor grisly 
thing that thou art, for thinking it of me! 

GHOST. Dang it, there you go again ! Grisly ! 

MRS. JESMOND (moving about the room, in a heat). Oh! Oh! 
I'll play no more backgammon with Mr. Fane from this 
time forth, I do assure you, nor with any other living 
man ! Oh ! 

GHOST. 'Twas not backgammon you were playing when I 
last espied you both, Betty. Mr. Fane had a paper in 
's hand an' appeared to be reciting to thee. 

MRS. JESMOND (halting). Ah, yes; he hath a taste for writing 
poetry, and was reading one of his compositions. (Re- 
turning to the table, eagerly) That is the reason Mr. Fane 
lingers at Wasdale, Harry; the grandeur of the district 
elevates his mind, he declares. Immediately he reined up 
at this door, two months back, and I went out to greet him, 
he looked at me and said, "Why, madam, this is the very 
spot I have been searching for in my dreams!" 

GHOST (giving another hollow laugh). Ha, ha, ha, ha! 

MRS. JESMOND (reproachfully). Oh, Hal, thou wert never 
bookish; you never knew aught of poets and their ways! 

GHOST. Not I. An' what's his poetry like, lass.? I warrant 
'tis all "love" an' "dove ", an' that sort o' muck. 



30 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

MRS. JESMOND. Nay, 'tis somewhat better than muck; 

though of no great merit perhaps. 

GHOST. The piece he was reading when I watched thee ? 

MRS. JESMOND. 'Twas Called — how was it styled? — "To 

Aminta " 

GHOST. Aminta? 

MRS. JESMOND. "Aminta" is a fanciful conceit; she is no 

real person. 'Tis modish in a poet to inscribe his rhymes to 

Julia, or Chloe, or — or Aminta. Pshaw ! Thou shalt judge 

how harmless the verses are. {Disdainfully) "To Aminta, 

a Lady Dwelling in the Country." 
GHOST (suspiciously). A lady dwelling i' th' country? 
MRS. JESMOND (reciting, at first with a show of indifference, 

then with genuine fervour). 

Belov'd Aminta, shall thy lone retreat 
Hold thee for ever in his close embrace. 
Whilst the vast waters stretching at thy feet 
Capture the sole reflection of thy face? 
Nay, let the lordly hill, the softer glen, 
In Nature's sempiternal gifts secure, 
Sufl'er thy charms t' illume the haunts of Men, 
Purge the vile Town and make the City pure! 

[She stands absorbed, looking into space. After a short silence, 

the sign-board creaks again gently. 
GHOST. Ha, ha, ha, ha! (She starts) Why, thou hast learned 

every syllable of it! 
MRS. JESMOND (guiltily) . Oh, 'tis but simple stuff, and readily 

committed to memory. 
GHOST. A lady dwelling i' th' country! 'Tis thee, o' course! 
MRS. JESMOND. La, there are hundreds of ladies that dwell 

in solitude in the country, Hal! 
GHOST. "Whilst the vast waters stretching at thy feet — "! 

'Tis our lake o' Wastwater! 
MRS. JESMOND (resuming her seat at the table and handling her 

papers in aflutter). Nay, I am weary of talking about 

this Mr. Fane 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 31 

GHOST. An' he'd bear thee off t' Lunnon, would he, t' th' 
haunts o' men, th' ! 

MRS, JESMOND {picking up a paper hastily). I've a question 
to ask thee concerning the crooked field below Buck- 
barrow 

GHOST. Ha, ha, ha, ha! 

MRS. JESMOND. Harry — ■ — ! {There is a sharp knocking at 
the upper door, followed by the click of the latch) Ah ! {Again 
the wind thunders, and again the candle-flames flicker and 
the room is momentarily in semi-darkness. Then the room 
brightens and Edward is seen upon the landing. The Ghost 
has disappeared) Who's there? 

[Edward shuts the door at which he has entered and, staring 
about him wildly, rapidly descends the stairs. The wind 
moderates. 

EDWARD. 'Tis I. {Running his eyes round the room) For- 
give me, madam. 

MRS. JESMOND {composcdhj, as though engrossed in work). 
Indeed, sir, you might have waited till I bade you 
come in. 

EDWARD {bewildered). M-m-may I have a word with 
you? 

MRS. JESMOND. If you wiU remember that I am at my 
books and papers, and that even an innkeeper is not always 
at the beck-and-call of a guest. 

EDWARD {bowing). Nay, ma'am, I have apologized for my 
fault. {Looking keenly in the direction of the lower door and 
the space under the staircase) The fact is that, hearing 
voices, I had less compunction in breaking in upon you 
than I should otherwise have had. 

MRS. JESMOND {with assuvied surprise). Voices? 

EDWARD. The sounds of talking and laughing. 

MRS. JESMOND. Why, Mr. Fane, 'tis not improbable that I 
chatter to myself while I am calculating my figures. 

EDWARD. And laugh! 

MRS. JESMOND. And laugh. {Rising and moving to the fire- 
place) The farmer — man or woman — that attempts to 



32 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

cultivate this grudging valley may well laugh, sir, though 
the laugh be on the wrong side o' the mouth. ^ 

EDWARD. Oh, but this is evasion! Mrs. Jesmond ! 

MRS. JESMOND. Evasion! 

EDWARD. Is there anybody concealed here? 

MRS. JESMOND. Concealed? 

EDWARD (peering into the space beneath the staircase and then 
returning and confronting her). Nay, then, he must have 
left the room as I entered it, and by this door! 

MRS. JESMOND. Mr. Fane! 

EDWARD (going to her). I swear I heard more than one 
voice, and that a man's! By Heaven, you are deceiving 
me! 

MRS. JESMOND. Deceiving you, sir! (Haughtily) Why, what 
am I to you, or you to me, that I should deceive you, or 
enlighten you, on any affair that doth not concern your 
abode at this inn? So that your bed is clean, and your 
food wholesome, and my charges are just and fairly reck- 
oned, and you acquit them promptly, what obligations, 
pray, are we under to each other? (Stamping her foot) 
Withdraw from my room, Mr. Fane, and suffer me to re- 
sume my work ! Stand aside, sir ! (He allows her to pass him 
but, as she does so, he catches her by the arms) Unhand me! 

EDWARD (passionately) . Mrs. Jesmond ! 

MRS. JESMOND (releasing herself and facing him). Oh, 'tis 
cowardly of you; and when my servants are abed, and I 
am unprotected ! (He retreats a step or two) Oh ! You that 
have writ such tender poems, and delivered them with so 
much sensibility! 

EDWARD (with dignity). Nay, madam, you misinterpret my. 
action. Believe me you have nothing to fear from my 
violence. (Drawing himself erect) And yet you are right; 
I am a coward, and an arrant one. 

MRS. JESMOND. Mr. Fane! 

1 Her farm at Burnthwaite seems to have been decidedly unprosperous, 
for to-day not a trace of cultivation exists between Wasdale Head and the 
Buttermere valley. 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 33 

EDWARD. A coward. What else am I when I have hesitated 
so long to free myself from the malign spell your beauty 
hath cast upon me ! 

MRS. JESMOND (faintly). Malign ! 

EDWARD. When, suspecting you to be false and unworthy — 
as I have for many weeks past, and as I have to-night 
proved you to be — I have foolishly persuaded myself, 
against my innermost convictions, of your probity and 
virtue ! 

MRS. JESMOND. Falsc and unworthy! You are mad, sir! 
False to whom? 

EDWARD. To me. 

MRS. JESMOND. To — to you! 

EDWARD. Why, madam, you know that I have loved you — 
(she puts her hand to her heart with a quick motion) do love 
you! 

MRS. JESMOND (tremblingly). Indeed, and indeed, Mr. 
Fane ! 

EDWARD (sternly). Hush! To deny it is a lie! (She makes 
a movement, as if to escape, and again he detains her) Stay ! 
You shall hear me! (She sinks into the chair at the right of 
the round table) I have loved you from the first moment 
I saw you, when, on that evil day on which accident 
brought me to this inn, and I checked my bridle at the 
porch, you stood with your hand resting on my horse's 
shoulder and your eyes drooped before mine. I have 
loved you from that moment, I repeat; (accusingly) while 
you, with the quick instinct that wakes intelligence in a 
woman's brain, if not response within her bosom, have 
divined my feelings and cruelly allowed me to foster them ! 

MRS. JESMOND (weakly). I have oft been struck with the 
idea that you are exceeding well-disposed towards me 

EDWARD. Well-disposed! Ah, do not prevaricate! 

MRS. JESMOND. But you have never spoke a word of love to 
me, I do protest. 

EDWARD. Not expressly; for 'twas on the night previous to 
the day on which I had intended to throw myself at your 



34 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

feet that, returning from my bedchamber to fetch a letter, 
I was startled by mysterious murmurs issuing from this 
room. 

MRS. JESMOND (raising her head). Ah! 

EDWARD. Since then (pointing to the door on the landing) I 
have listened there every Friday night 

MRS. JESMOND. Listened! 

EDWARD (abashed). I confess it — listened with my hand 
upon the latch, lacking the courage to enter and perhaps 
confirm the dreadful doubts that assailed me. 

MRS. JESMOND (scomfully) . You do yourself scant justice, 
Mr. Fane. You are full of courage to-night, sir, at any rate! 

EDWARD. Because I have to-night heard what I have not 
hitherto clearly detected — the sound of a man's voice; and 
have convinced myself that, aided by a specious but ill- 
contrived stratagem, you are receiving a visitor clandes- 
tinely. (She rises, standing before him with her head averted. 
The 2vind swells again) Mrs. Jesmond, I set out for London 
to-morrow, carrying with me recollections that will remain 
with me till death — recollections of the hours we have 
spent together in this apartment; hours of bliss, before I 
mistrusted thee, and afterwards when your charms have 
lulled me into the belief that the possessor of so fair an 
exterior must be the most innocent, as you are assuredly 
the most captivating, of your sex; hours of anguish, when 
doubt hath gained supremacy and I have endured the 
torments of the damned. Farewell! Did I desire retalia- 
tion, 'twould be in the thought that at some future time 
you will reproach yourself for having shaken beyond repair 
the faith of one who would have crowned you with his 
honour and esteem, adored you with his body, defended 
you with his sword, and given you a heart to lean upon that 
hath been touched by no other woman. ^ (Boimng low) 
Madam ! 

MRS. JESMOND (with tt dccp curtsey). Farewell, sir. (He goes 

1 Compare Mr. George Napier's declaration to Lady Sarah in the "Life 
and Letters of Lady Sarah Lennox." 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 35 

towards the staircase. Suddenly, ivith a gasp, she runs to the 
foot of the stairs and intercepts him) Ah, no ! Mr. Fane ! 

EDWARD (drawing bade). Mrs. Jesmond! 

MRS. JESMOND. Mr. Fane, I cannot bear that we should part 
thus. Edward! 'Tis true; I am false and unworthy, as 
you have accused me of being. But 'tis my — my secret 
visitor that I am false to, and not to thee. (Coming closer 
to him) Edward ! 

EDWARD (repelling her with a gesture). Ah ! 

MRS. JESMOND. Nay, don't put me from thee, for this once. 
(Simply) Edward, I have known of thy love for me; I have 
known it from the beginning. And, oh — Heaven pardon 
me, my dear — (laying her head against him) — I have loved 
that thou shouldst love me! 

EDWARD (after a struggle). Betty ! 

[He folds her in his arms. The wind roars and the sign-board 
screeches. 

MRS. JESMOND (feebly) . And now — enough. (Looking up at 
him) Only I beg thee to glance up at my window as 
you ride away tomorrow. Thou wilt do that for me, 
Edward.? 

EDWARD (in sudden fury). Oh ! 

[He catches up the riding-cloak from the table in the bay of 
the window, flings it aside, and seizes one of the pistols. 

MRS. JESMOND. Pistols! 

EDWARD (examining the lock of the pistol). They are Sir John 
Hunslet's. (Grimly) He left them lying here, lest I 
should encounter the wretch that hath obtained such a per- 
nicious influence over thee. 

MRS. JESMOND (laughing wildly). Ha, ha, ha, ha! 

EDWARD (grasping the pistol tightly). The villain — he that 
visits thee — where is he hid.'^ 

MRS. JESMOND. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Thy bullet cannot harm 
him. 'Twould but whistle through him and strike the wall. 

EDWARD (gripping her wrist). Collect thyself; thou art out 
of thy senses! 

MRS. JESMOND (desperately). Am I! Thou shall seel (Point- 



36 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

ing to the hunting-horn) Unhook that horn from its nail 
and bring it to me. 

EDWARD. The signal! 

MRS. JESMOND. What, hast thou heard that also ! (Hurriedly 
he takes down the hunting-horn and hands it to her. Again she 
blows upon it, and again the wind gives a mighty bellow, the 
candles flicker, and the bluish light suffuses the rooms) Look ! 
[Following the direction of her eyes, he turns and finds the 
Ghost at his elbow. 

EDWARD (under his breath). Merciful Powers! (The pistol 
drops from his relaxed fingers and rattles on the stones of the 
floor. Slowly, with measured tread and with its head bent, the 
Ghost walks to the fireplace and stands there, gazing into the 
fire. The force of the wind decreases) A ghost! A ghost! 
A ghost! 

MRS. JESMOND (placing the horn upon the round table and ad- 
dressing Edward in a hushed, steady voice). 'Tis my hus- 
band's spirit, Mr. Fane. My grief called it to me in the 
young days of my bereavement, and it hath visited me 
since every week, and guided me in the conduct of my land 
and property; (with a slight shiver) and 'tis my resolve to 
remain as constant to this shadow as though 'twere blood 
and bone. (Moving a little towards Edward) You have been 
pleased to take a kindly interest in me, sir; and you will be 
glad, I am sure, when you quit Wasdale, to reflect that the 
poor widow that hath done her best for your comfort and 
entertainment is not entirely alone. (Curtseying again) 
Good-night. (Speechless, Edward backs away from her and 
goes out at the door under the landing. She sees that the door 
is closed and then advances timorously. The Ghost does not 
stir) Er — I hope thou'rt not angry, Hal. 'Twas Mr. Fane 
that interrupted us. He returned to this room for some 
purpose, and our talk and laughter reached him as he was 
opening the door. 'Twas indiscreet in us to speak so loud. 
(Coming to the round table) But, la, 'tis no matter; he is a 
person to be trusted! (Lightly, toying with her books and 
papers) Beside — ha, ha ! — it hath afforded me the oppor- 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 37 

tunity of hinting to my gentleman that, should he ever re- 
visit Wasdale Head, 'twould be useless for him to pursue 
thy Betty with his attentions, were he so minded. (Seating 
herself at the table again) He doth depart to-morrow, I 
thank the Lord! (Sorting her litter) What was it I was 
about to ask thee? (Picking up a paper) Ah, yes; the 
crooked field by Buckbarrow — ! (The Ghost slowly turns 
and faces her and she stares at it agape. Its form and features 
have become less distinct) Why — how — how dim you are, 
Harry ! 
GHOST (harshly, but in fainter tones than before). Dim! 'Egad, 
I should think so! Thou know'st that I owe this ghostly 
existence o' mine only to thy love for me. 

MRS. JESMOND. W-W-WcU? 

GHOST. Well ! Ha, ha ! I marvel, after witnessing what hath 
passed 'twixt you and Mr. Fane, that thou canst discern 
me at all, Betty. 

MRS. JESMOND (aghast). Witnessing ! 

GHOST. Aye. Did 'ee imagine I was out of eye-an'-ear-shot? 

MRS. JESMOND. Y-y-y-yes. 

GHOST. Not I. I've been wi' thee th' whole while. Ho, ho, 
ho, ho! (There is a pause, and then Mrs. Jesmond, pressing 
her temples, falls back in her chair with a groan) Nay, less, 
'tis I that should be making a fuss; an', b' George, I would 
too, but that thou hast diminished me to that degree that 
I'm scarce capable of it! 

MRS. JESMOND (raising herself). Oh! Oh! (Dropping her out- 
stretched arms upon the table and laying her head upon them) 
Oh-h-h-h! 

[The wind gives a sigh and the sign-board creaks sympa- 
thetically. 

GHOST (wagging its head shakily). Ah, Bet, Bet, I own I've 
never suspected you would sell me i' this fashion. (With 
a low cry, she rises and throws herself at the Ghost's feet) 
That thou shouldst prove such a smooth-tongued, double- 
faced hypocrite! Dang it, that beats me, that had such a 
vast knowledge o' women! 



38 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

MRS. JESMOND. Oh, hush, hush! Were I a hypocrite, and 
merely feigning love for thee, there would be nothing of 
thee visible, Harry; not a vestige. (Piteously) Ah, I've 
told thee already to-night, logic was never thy strong 
point ! 

GHOST (meditatively). Zounds, I suppose 'tis possible for a 
woman to love a live man an' yet ha' a softish feeling for 
a dead one ! 

MRS. JESMOND {grovelUng and weeping). Oh! Oh! 

GHOST. But 'tis plain, Betty, that thy love for Fane is 
uppermost 

MRS. JESMOND. Oh! Oh! 

GHOST. An' so, to presarve a morsel o' dignity, 'twould be 
prudent o' me to bid thee good-bye before I fade from thee 
completely. 

MRS. JESMOND. No, no, Hal! Listen! (Sitting up and clasp- 
ing her hands supplicatingly) Oh, listen! (The wind sighs 
again and the sign-hoard creaks) Hal — Hal, when the grave 
closed over thee, I did indeed believe that I was done with 
love for ever, and that my heart was but a dry and withered 
plant; but, oh, there are seasons when it will persist in put- 
ting forth green shoots, and when I find strange hopes and 
joys quickening within me that are unbefitting a woman 
that is devoted to the memory of her dead husband ! Alas, 
Harry, 'twas at such a time that Mr. Fane came upon me ! 
Though 'twas in January that he alighted at my door, the 
sun was shining in the valley, and our robins were chirping, 
and there was a tremble of Spring in the air; and 'twas then, 
when he had crossed my threshold and I filled him a cup of 
wine, and faced him while he drank — 'twas then that I 
felt those green shoots in my breast burst and spread their 
leaves. (Wildly) But, oh, my dear, he is going, as you are 
informed — he is going! — and 'tis not likely that he will 
come my way again, nor that another young man of his 
rank and character will ever resort to this lonely inn. And 
so you must pardon me this one stumble; and by all that 
I hold most sacred, Hal ! 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 39 

GHOST (mournfully). Nay, nay, thou shalt make no more 
promises. Thou hast perjured thyself enough as it is. 

MRS. JESMOND. Perjured myself ! Ah, yes ! (Laying her head 
in abasement upon the chair at the right of the round table) 
Oh, Hal, Hal, Hal! 

GHOST. Ah, I perceive now — an' so dost thou. Bet — 'tis a 
sad mistake for a widow in th' first flood of her grief to 
call her husband back from his tomb. What we do in heat 
we repent in cold. An' if 'tis so wi' widows in general, 'tis 
especially so wi' thee, that are still but a girl. (She sobs) 
Zooks, 'tis my fault for having answered thy cry ! I should 
ha' had more brains; an' would ha' had, but that I lost 
some in my accident. (She sobs again) So, come, dry thine 
eyes. I tell 'ee I don't blame thee, nor bear thee malice; 
no, nor him. (Attempting, with small success, to repeat his 
pretence of snuffing) 'Tis th' way o' th' world. Ods-bobs, 
who is missed in't ! (Philosophically, flourishing his phan- 
tom pocket-handkerchief) Why, I recollect losing my dog 
Pincher when I was a bachelor, that died o' jaundice. How 
I raved about 'un, an' stamped up an' down th' stable 
where he lay stiff! But a week or two later I was buying 
a couple o' pups at Gosforth fair, an' was in love wi' them, 
an' forgot Pincher; an' th' following week I met thee, and 
fell in love wi' thee, an' forgot th' pups. (Producing its 
gloves and speaking in the tone of a person preparing to de- 
part) Well, lass ! 

MRS. JESMOND. Ah! (Turning swiftly, with a hoarse scream) 
Ah-h-h-h! 

GHOST (drawing on a glove). Perhaps 'tis all for th' best, 
though 't has been a sore blow to my pride. (Hopefulhj) 
'Egad, as I shall ride out no more, maybe 'twill settle th' 
question o' my future, one way or tother! 

MRS. JESMOND (frantically). Harry! Harry ! 

GHOST. Th' grey mare too! She did but blunder once in her 
life; 'tis rough on her, poor slut, to have had her rest broke 
for a single slip. 
[The wind roars again furiously, and the room, darkens as 



40 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 

the Ghost glides towards the window. Struggling to her 
feet, Mrs. Jesmond staggers after the Ghost and tries to 
clutch it. 

MRS. JESMOND. Harry! No, no! Hal! Ah, I can't hold thee! 
I can't hold thee! Oh! 

GHOST (softly). Coom, mare, coom! Coom, coom, coom! 

MRS. JESMOND. Wait! Wait — ! (The Ghost vanishes) Ah- 
h-h-h ! Come back ! Harry ! My husband ! (She rushes, still 
crying out, to the stairs and gropes for the hunting-horn; then, 
remembering that it is upon the round table, she flies to the table 
and seizes it) Ah! Harry! Harry! I love thee! I swear I love 
thee ! (She blows the horn and instantly the shutters disappear 
and the Ghost is seen upon the grey mare, the wild country 
beyond. Again the wind bellows) Oh! Wait! Ah-h-h-h! 
(Holding the reins in its left hand, the Ghost waves its right 
hand in adieu; and then, with a hollow whoop, it claps its 
spurs to the mare's sides, and horse and rider plunge into the 
murk. The shutters reappear and the room is bright once more) 
Oh, no! Thou'rt not gone! Thou'rt not gone! Harry! 
(She puts the horn to her mouth again and blows a loud blast. 
Then she runs about the room, searching and calling) Harry! 
Harry! I want thee! Where are you.? (Looking into the 
space under the staircase) Are you there, Hal.'' (In the bay 
of the window) Hal, I've something to ask thee! 'Tis im- 
portant! (At the fireplace) Harry! Oh, Harry — I (Sud- 
denly, ihrovying the horn from her) Ah-h-h-h! He's gone! 
He's gone! 

\The door on the landing opens and Edward and Sir John 
Hunslet appear. 

EDWARD. Mrs. Jesmond ! 

MRS. JESMOND. He's gone! (To Edward) You have driven 
him away ! I hate you ! I — ! Harry — ! 
[She topples to the ground. Edward and Sir John descend 
the stairs rapidly and Edward, kneeling beside Mrs. Jesmond, 
lifts her into his arms. The wind lessens. 

EDWARD. Mrs. Jesmond! Betty! Betty! (To Sir John, in 
alarm) Oh, Jack ! 



THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 41 

[Sir John takes the candlestick from the round table and bends 
over Mrs. Jesmond. 
siK JOHN (quietly). 'Tis only a swoon. (Carrying the candle- 
stick, he moves to the lower door^ I'll go and rouse one of 
her women. [The sign-board creaks. 

THE END 



THE GOAL 

HENRY ARTHUR JONES 

The work of Henry Arthur Jones is doubly significant. 
In the first place, it marks the return of the best English dra- 
matic traditions to the modern stage, for in spite of the inno- 
vations preached by Mr. Jones so assiduously for over thirty 
years, he remains in his best work a dramatist of the classical 
school. "The Liars", "The Case of Rebellious Susan", and 
"Dolly Reforming Herself", are genuine comedies, indige- 
nously English, of the line of Sheridan and Goldsmith. 

Henry Arthur Jones was born at Grandborough, Bucks, 
in 1851. His early education was received in his native 
district. He entered business at Bradford and was for 
some years a commercial traveler. Before reaching the age 
of thirty, however, he wrote his first play, " Only 'Round the 
Corner", which was produced at Exeter in 1878. During the 
succeeding four years he wrote a number of relatively un- 
important plays. In 1882 he achieved his first and, in some 
respects, his most brilliant success, with a melodrama, "The 
Silver King", written in collaboration with Henry Herman. 
This celebrated play has seen the footlights in many countries 
and is still occasionally revived. "Saints and Sinners" 
(1884) is Mr. Jones' first significant play; it was a landmark 
in modern English drama, a work in which subject- 
matter and treatment were primarily English, and not — 
as was usual at the time — of French origin. 

Aside from his seventy plays, Henry Arthur Jones has 
contributed a considerable mass of theory and propagandist 
literature on the modern drama, setting high standards in 



44 



THE GOAL 



dramatic art both for the dramatist and the public. To 
him is due a great part of that impetus which has resulted 
in what he himself calls the Renascence of the English drama. 
Mr. Jones has written few one-act plays, but excepting 
"The Goal" and "The Knife", his short plays are not of the 
first importance. "The Goal", however, is an outstanding 
example of his skill in extracting from a situation the last 
ounce of its dramatic possibilities. The play is an incident, 
simple and unified; the art with which it is unfolded is direct 
and all-sufficient. 



PLAYS 

Plays marked with * are in one act only. 



*Only 'Round the Corner 

(1878) 
*Hearts of Oak (1879) 
*Harmony (1879) 
*Elopement (1879) 
*A Clerical Error (1879) 
*An Old Master (1881) 

His Wife (1881) 

Home Again (1881) 
*A Bed of Roses (1881) 

The Silver King (1882) 
(In collaboration with 
Henry Herman) 

Chatterton (1884) 

Saints and Sinners (1884) 

Hoodman Blind (1885) 

The Lord Harry (1886) 

The Noble Vagabond (1886) 

Hard Hit (1887) 

Heart of Hearts (1887) 

Wealth (1889) 

The Middleman (1889) 

Judah (1890) 



*SweetWill (1890) 
*The Deacon (1890) 
The Dancing Girl (1891) 
The Crusaders (1891) 
The Bauble Shop (1893) 
The Tempter (1893) 
The Masqueraders (1894) 
The Case of Rebellious Su- 
san (1894) 
The Triumph of the Philis- 
tines (1895) 
Michael and his Lost Angel 

(1896) 
The Rogue's Comedy (1896) 
The Physician (1897) 
The Liars (1897) 
*GraceMary (1898) 
The Manoeuvres of Jane 

(1898) 
Carnac Sahib (1899) 
The Lackey's Carnival 

(1900) 
Mrs. Dane's Defence (1900) 



THE GOAL 45 



The Princess's Nose (1902) We Can't Be As Bad As All 
Chance The Idol (1902) That (1910) 

Whitewashing Julia (1903) *The Knife (1910) 
Joseph Entangled (1904) The Ogre (1911) 

The Chevaleer (1904) Lydia Gilmore (1912) 

The Heroic Stubbs (1906) The Divine Gift (1912) 

The Hypocrites (1906) Mary Goes First (1913) 

*The Goal (1907) The Lie (1914) 

The Evangelist (1907) Cock o' The Walk (1915) 

Dolly Reforming Herself *Her Tongue (1915) 

(1908) The Pacifists (1917) 

*Fall In, Rookies! (1910) 

"Harmony", "Elopement", "Hearts of Oak", "A Clerical 
Error", "An Old Master", "A Bed of Roses", "The Deacon", 
"Sweet Will", "Joseph Entangled", "The Silver King", 
"The Dancing Girl", "The Hypocrites", "Mrs. Dane's 
Defence", "The Case of Rebellious Susan", "The Liars", 
"The Masqueraders", "Dolly Reforming Herself", "The 
Tempter", "The Manoeuvres of Jane", "Judah", "The 
Physician", "Whitewashing Julia", "The Rogue's Comedy", 
"The Triumph of the Philistines", and "Mary Goes First" 
are published separately by Samuel French, New York; "The 
Crusaders", "Michael and his Lost Angel", and "Carnac 
Sahib" separately by Macmillan Company, New York; "The 
Divine Gift" and "The Lie" separately by George H. Doran 
Company, New York; and "The Goal", "Her Tongue", and 
"Grace Mary", in "The Theater of Ideas", by the same. 

References: George Moore, "Impressions and Opinions", 
Brentano's, New York; Clayton Hamilton, "The Theory of 
the Theater", Henry Holt and Company, New York; 
Brander Matthews, "A Study of the Drama", Houghton, 
Mifflin Company, Boston; Henry Arthur Jones, "The Re- 
nascence of the English Drama", Macmillan, New York; 
"The Foundations of a National Drama", Doran; Introduc- 
tion to Brunetiere's "The Law of the Drama", Dramatic 
Museum of Columbia University; and prefaces to "The 



46 THE GOAL 



Theater of Ideas", "The Divine Gift", and "The Case of 
Rebellious Susan." 

Magazines: North American Review, vol. clxxxvi, p. 205, 
New York; The Reader, vol. ix, p. 105, New York; Blackwood' Sy 
vol. xciv, p. 283, London. 



THE GOAL 

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT 



BY HENRY ARTHUR JONES 



"The Goal" was first produced at London in 1897. 

Characters 

Sir Stephen Famariss, the great Engineer 
Daniel Famariss, his son. Engineer 
Sir Lydden Crane, M.D. 
Adams, Sir Stephens Butler 
Peggie Lovel 
Nurse Clandon 

Scene: Sir Stephen's bedroom in Belgravia. 
Time: 1897. 



CoPTHiQHT, 1915, B7 Georqe H. Dohan Compant. 
Reprinted by permission of author and publisher, from "The Theatre of Ideas", 
published by George H. Doran Company. 

Note. The acting rights of thi? play are fully protected in all countries. Legal 
proceedings will be taken against anyone who attempts to infringe them. Application 
for terms for professional dramatic performances in America and Canada should be ad- 
dressed to The American Play Company, ^olian Building, 33 West 42nd St., New 
York. For amateur performances to Samuel French, Publisher, 28 West 38th Street, 
New York. 



THE GOAL 

Scene. The dressing room of Sir Stephen Famariss, Bel- 
grave Square. A very richly furnished apartment, with every 
evidence of wealth and luxury. Up stage right an archway, set 
diagonally, shows a bedroom beyond with foot of brass bedstead 
placed sideways to audience. The bedroom is dimly lighted. 
A large bow-window, rather deeply recessed, runs along the left 
at back, and looks across a courtyard to another house, whose 
windows are brilliantly lighted. Figures dancing are seen mov- 
ing across the windows in accordance with indications given 
through the play. Between archway and vnndow a large hand- 
some bureau. A door left down stage. Down stage right, fire- 
place with fire burning. A mirror over fireplace. A large com- 
fortable sofa down stage right. A table left of sofa near centre 
of stage, vnih bottle of champagne and glasses on it. Another 
table up stage left above door. Upon it medicine bottles, spirit 
lamp, and other paraphernalia of a sick room. A large pier 
looking-glass up stage above sofa. Other furniture as required, 
all indicating great wealth and comfort. Time, aboid ten on an 
April evening. Discover on sofa, asleep. Sir Stephen Famariss. 
A rug is thrown over him, and his head is buried in a pillow, so 
that nothing is seen of him but a figure under the rug. Nurse 
Clandon, in nurse's costume, about thirty, is seated in chair at 
table, reading. The door, left, is very softly opened, and Sir 
Lydden Crane enters, a little, dry, shrewd, wizened old man 
about seventy, with manners of a London physician. Nurse \ 
rises and puts down her book. 
^RANE. Well? How has he been all the afternoon? 
NURSE. Just as usual. He won't keep quiet. About an \ 

hour ago he fell asleep. [Pointing to Sir Stephen. 

CRANE. Mr. Daniel Famariss has not arrived? 



50 THE GOAL 

NURSE. No. He sent another telegram for him this even- 
ing. And he keeps on asking for the evening papers. 

CRANE. Well? 

NURSE. I've kept them from him. They all have long ac- 
counts of his illness. ( Taking an evening paper from under 
the table cover, giving it to Crane) Look! 

CRANE {taking paper, reading). "Sir Stephen Famariss, the 

great engineer, is dying " Hum! 

[A very gentle knock is heard at door left. Nurse goes to it, 
opens it. Adams comes in a step. 

ADAMS. I beg pardon. Mrs. Lovel has sent in to ask how 
Sir Stephen is; and to say that she's very sorry the ball- 
room is so near his bedroom; and if the noise of the ball 
will upset Sir Stephen, she'll be very pleased to put it off, 
and send her guests away? 

NURSE. What do you think, Sir Lydden? 

CRANE. All excitement is very dangerous for Sir Stephen. 
The next attack may be fatal. Will you give my compli- 
ments to Mrs. Lovel, and say that since she is so kind I 
will beg her to postpone the ball? 

[Sir Stephen stirs, throws off the quilt. He is in a rich dress- 
ing-gown. A iciry, handsome, very intellectual-looking man 
about seventy-five; well-seasoned, vigorous frame; pale, sharp, 
strong features, showing signs of great recent pain. 

SIR STEPHEN. Will you give my compliments to Mrs. Lovel, 
and say that since she is so kind I will beg her to do nothing 
of the kind. What rubbish. Crane! Because I happen to 
be dying, to stop the innocent pleasure of a couple of 
hmidred young people! Thank Mrs. Lovel very much, 
Adams, for sending in, and say that I'm not at all sure that 
I shall die to-night; but that if I do, her dancing won't in 
the least interfere with my dying, and I hope she won't 
allow my dying to interfere with her dancing. I very 
much wish the ball to take place. (Very imperiously) It's 
not to be put off! You understand? 
j^ ADAMS. Yes, Sir Stephen. [Going. 

SIR STEPHEN. And, Adams, give my compliments to Mrs. 



THE GOAL 51 



Lovel, and say that if she doesn't mind, I should Hke to 

see Miss Lovel in her ball dress for a moment before the 

ball. Say that I'm quite presentable, and I won't frighten 

^ Miss Lovel. \Exit Adams. 

^ SIR STEPHEN. Well, Crane, am I going off this time? 

CRANE. This last attack coming so quickly after the other 
is very alarming and — very dangerous. 

SIR STEPHEN. Ycs, but am I going to pull through again, or 
must I put up the shutters? 

CRANE. Well — well 

SIR STEPHEN {seeing jpajper on table where Crane has put it). 
Is that to-night's paper? {No reply) Give it to me. 

CRANE {deprecatingly) . Famariss 

SIR STEPHEN. Givc it to me. 
[Crane gives it to him reluctantly. 

SIR STEPHEN {reading from paper). "Alarming illness of 
Sir Stephen Famariss. Angina Pectoris. Fatal symp- 
toms. Sir Stephen Famariss, the great engineer, is dy- 
ing " There's nothing like making sure of your facts. 

CRANE. Too sure! 

SIR STEPHEN {drily). So I think. What do you say? How 
long am I going to live? 

CRANE. Well 

SIR STEPHEN. Come out with it, old friend. I'm not afraid 
to hear. 

CRANE. With the greatest care, I see no reason why you 
shouldn't live some weeks — or months. 

SIR STEPHEN. Shall I live long enough to carry out my Mil- 
ford Haven scheme? Tell me the truth. 

CRANE. No. You certainly won't. 

SIR STEPHEN {shows intense disappointment). You're sure? 

CRANE. I'm sure. 

SIR STEPHEN. But I shall live long enough to start it, to put 
it into other hands, into my son's hands — if the rebellious 
fool will only learn wisdom and make it up with me before 
I die. I shall live long enough for that? 

CRANE. No. I fear not. 



52 THE GOAL 



SIR STEPHEN (going to bureau). But I've got a third of it 
on paper. {Taking out plans) I've kept it here. I've 
worked at it when I couldn't sleep. If I can last out an- 
other six months, I can do it. Come, Crane, don't be 
stingy. Give me another six months! Eh? 

CRANE. Famariss, you won't last six months even with the 
greatest care. You may not last six weeks 

SIR STEPHEN. Nor six days? 

CRANE. Nor six days. 

SIR STEPHEN. Nor six hours? 

CRANE. Oh ! 

SIR STEPHEN. Nor six hours. Thank you. I'm prepared. 

CRANE. Your son hasn't come yet? 

SIR STEPHEN. No. I'vc telegraphed him twice — and my 
terms. 

CRANE. Is it worth while — of course, you know best — is it 
worth while to stick out for terms when ? 

SIR STEPHEN. When one is in face of death. Yes — on a 
matter of principle. If Dan comes here, he comes on my 
terms. I'll keep my word; I won't set eyes on him — he 
shan't pass that door until he owns he was wrong. 

CRANE. But 

SIR STEPHEN (getting excited). But he was wrong. He was 
wrong, and no power on earth shall make me 

CRANE (soothing him). Hush! If he does come, you must 
avoid all excitement in meeting him. Your only chance 
of prolonging your life is to keep absolutely quiet. You 
must lay up all day 

SIR STEPHEN. Lay up all day! Don't talk nonsense! 

CRANE. If you don't 

SIR STEPHEN. If I dou't 



CRANE. You may die at any moment. 

SIR STEPHEN. But if I do, I'm dead already. No, Crane, 
I'll live to my last moment, whenever it comes. When I 
do take to my bed, I'll take to it once for all, in the church- 
yard, beside my Peggie! (Very softly, very tenderly, half 
to himself) My Peggie! My Peggie! If I do go off, I 



THE GOAL 53 



shall see her again, I suppose — if it isn't all moonshine! 
Open the window, Nurse! It's getting hot here! {The 
Nurse opens window) Open that champagne, Crane, and 
pour yourself out a glass, and pour me out a glass. My 
Peggie! My Peggie! I wonder if it is all moonshine! 
[The musicians in the ballroom opposite begin to tune up their 
fiddles. Nurse comes down. 

SIR STEPHEN. That's right! Tune up! Tune up! And 
Peggie Lovel promised me the first dance ! Tune up ! 

NURSE. You must keep quiet 

SIR STEPHEN (pettishly) . Runaway! Runaway! 

[Crane makes Nurse a sign, and she goes off into bedroom. 
Crane has opened the champagne and poured out two glasses. 
He brings one to Sir Stephen. 

SIR STEPHEN. It's the eighty-four Saint Marceaux. I've 
left you half what's left of this. Crane, and I've left my 
mule of a boy the other half. He's my heir. I won't 
see him; no, not if I 

CRANE. Hush ! Hush ! 

SIR STEPHEN. I won't See him unless he submits. But I've 
left him every penny, except what goes to charities and 
churches. It's very puzzling to know what to do with 
one's money, Crane. I've left a heap to charities, and 
I've squared all the churches. I hope it won't do much 
harm. (A little chuckle) There's one thing I regret in 
dying. Crane : I shan't be able to hear my funeral sermons. 
But you will 

CRANE. Don't make too sure. I may go off first; but if I 
am doomed, I hope the oratory will be of as good a vintage 
as this. 

SIR STEPHEN. It ouglit to be, considering what I've left them 
all. Give them a hint, Crane, not to whitewash my sep- 
ulchre with any lying cant. Don't let them make a 
plaster-of -Paris saint of me! I won't have it! I won't 
have it! I've been a man, and never less than a man. 
I've never refused to do the work that came in my way, 
and, thank God, I've never refused to taste a pleasure. 



54 THE GOAL 

And I've had a rare good time in this rare good world. I 
wish I'd got to live it all over again! 

CRANE. You do? 

SIR STEPHEN. Yes; every moment of it, good and evil, 
pleasure and pain, love and work, success and failure, youth 
and age, I'd fill the cup again, and I'd drain it to the dregs 
if I could. You wouldn't? 

CRANE. No. Once is enough for me. 

SIR STEPHEN. You scc. Crane, before starting in life, I took 
the one great step to secure success and happiness. 

CRANE. What's that? 

SIR STEPHEN. I made an excellent choice of my father and 
mother. Not rich. Not aristocratic. But a good, sound, 
healthy stock on both sides. What's the cause of all the 
weak, sniyelling pessimism we hear? WTiat's the cause of 
nine-tenths of the misery around us — ruined lives; shat- 
tered health; physical, moral, intellectual beggary? What's 
the cause of doctors' bills? 

CRANE. Well, what is? 

SIR STEPHEN. Men and women exercise no care in choosing 
their fathers and mothers. You doctors know it! You 
doctors know it! Once choose your father and mother 
wisely, and you can play all sorts of tricks with your con- 
stitution. You can drink your half bottle of champagne 
at seventy-five and enjoy it ! Another glass ! 

CRANE. No, I must be going! (Rising) And (tapping bot- 
tle) you mustn't take any more. 

SIR STEPHEN. Don't talk nonsense! Sit down! Sit down! 
Another glass! Hobnob, man; hobnob! Life's but a 
span! \Miy, this may be the last time, eh? 

CRANE. Any time may be the last time. Any moment 
may be the last moment. 

SIR STEPHEN. WeU, then, let's enjoy the last moment! I 
tell you. Crane, I'm ready. All my affairs are in perfect 
order. I should have liked to finish that Milford Haven 
scheme; but if it isn't to be — (deep sigh) — Hobnob, man; 
hobnob ! 



THE GOAL 55 



CRANE. What a lovely wine ! 

SIR STEPHEN. Isn't it? I remember Goethe says that the 
man who drinks wine is damned, but the man who drinks 
bad wine is doubly damned. Pray God you and I may 
be only damned once, Crane. 

CRANE. Oh, that's past praying for — in my ease ! 

SIR STEPHEN. Eighty-four! I was boring a hole through 
the Rockies that summer — ah, Crane, what glorious sum- 
mers I've had! — seventy-five glorious golden summers — 
and now — Hobnob, man; hobnob! You've had a good 
innings, too. Crane. 

CRANE. Hum! Pretty fair. I eat well, drink well, sleep 
well, get my early morning jog in the Park and enjoy it, 
get my two months on the moors, and enjoy them. I feel 
as fit to-day as I did thirty years ago. There's only one 
pleasure that fails me — (v)ith a grimace at Sir Stephen) — 
Gone! Gone! Gone! 

SIR STEPHEN. Don't fret about that! We thought it a 
pleasure, old crony, while it lasted. Now it's gone, let's 
call it a plague and a sin, and thank God for giving us a 
little peace in our old age. Ah, dear, dear, what a havoc 
women have made of the best half of my life; but — 
(brightening) — I've left some good work behind me, in 
spite of the hussies! And, thank Heaven, my throat has 
held out to the last. [Drinking. 

CRANE (drinking). And mine! 

SIR STEPHEN. Crane, what was that joke that came up at 
poor Farley's funeral.'' 

CRANE. Joke.? 

SIR STEPHEN. Don't you remember while we were waiting for 
them to bring dear old Farley downstairs, Maidment began 
telling that story about the geese and the Scotch-boy 

CRANE. Yes, yes; to be sure! [Beginning to laugh. 

SIR STEPHEN. And just as we were enjoying the joke, we 
suddenly remembered where we were, and you pulled us 
up, and spoilt the joke! 

CRANE. Yes, yes, I remember. 



56 THE GOAL 

SIR STEPHEN. Crane, if Maidment tells that story at ray 
funeral, don't pull him. up 

CRANE. Eh? 

SIR STEPHEN. It's a good joke, man ! Don't waste it ! Have 

your laugh out, and say from me that, other conditions 

being favourable, I'm enjoying it as heartily as any of 

you! You will, eh.? You will? 
CRANE. Yes, I will! I will! 

[They both laugh a little. Adams opens door lejt, and comes 

in a step. 
ADAMS. Miss Lovel has come. Sir Stephen. 
SIR STEPHEN. Show her in, Adams. [Exit Adams. 

CRANE. I must be going. 

[Renter Adams, showing in Peggie Lovel, a debutante of 

eighteen, in her first ball dress; radiant, excited, beautifully 

dressed, a vision of girlish loveliness. She is frivolous and 

self-conscious, and full of little airs and graces, constantly 

glancing at herself in the two mirrors. 
ADAMS (announcing). Miss Lovel. [Exit Adams. 

SIR STEPHEN. Come in, Peggie. I mustn't call you Peggie 

any more. Come in. Miss Lovel. 
PEGGIE. Mamma said you would like to see me for a minute 

before the ball! 
SIR STEPHEN. If you don't mind, 

PEGGIE. How d'ye do. Sir Lydden? [Shaking hands. 

CRANE. How d'ye do. Miss Lovel? Good night, Sir Stephen. 

[Holding out hand. 
SIR STEPHEN. Don't go, old chum. 

[Taking his hand, retaining it, keeping Crane. 
CRANE. I must. {Taking out watch) I have a consultation 

at eleven. 
SIR STEPHEN (pitcously). Don't go, old chum. 
CRANE. It's really pressing. It's Lord Albert Swale. He 

won't last till the morning. 
SIR STEPHEN. Don't go. I may be meeting him soon, and 

I'll make your apologies. {Very piteously) Don't go, old 

chum! 



THE GOAL 57 



CRANE. I must. (Nurse enters from bedroom) Nurse, I 
want, a word with you downstairs. (Nurse crosses to left, 
and exit. To Sir Stephen) I'll look in, the first thing in 
the morning. 

SIR STEPHEN. Do. You'll find me — at home. 

CRANE. Good night. Good night, Miss Lovel. 

PEGGIE. Good night, Sir Lydden. 

CRANE (in a low tone to Peggie). You mustn't stay long, and 
you mustn't let Sir Stephen excite himself. (To Sir 
Stephen) I'd rather see you in bed 

SIR STEPHEN (very impatiently). Tut! Tut! Tut! I won't 
be buried before I'm dead. (Rather curtly) Good night. 
(Crane waits. Imperiously) Good night ! (Crane is going) 
And, Crane, remember — no whitewash on my sepulchre! 
[Exit Crane, left. Peggie meantime has taken off her cloak. 
All through she is eager and excited, glances at herself in the 
glasses very often. 

PEGGIE. I'm so sorry you're ill, Sir Stephen. 

SIR STEPHEN. I'm uot ill, my dear. The old machine seems 
just as strong and tough as ever, only — it's gone "crack" 
in a weak place. Well, I've knocked it about all over 
the world for seventy-five years, and if it hadn't gone 
crack in one place, I suppose it would in another. Never 
mind me. Let's talk about you. Go and stand there, 
and let me look at you. 

PEGGIE (displaying her dress). Do you like me.^* Do you 
hke my dress .^^ 

SIR STEPHEN. It's a triumph! 

PEGGIE (chattering on). You can't imagine what trouble 
mamma and I have taken over it. Long sleeves are com- 
ing in for evening wear. So I had long sleeves at first. 
I was all sleeves. So I had them taken out and short 
sleeves put in. The dressmaker made a horrible muddle 
of them. So we tried long sleeves again. I looked a 
perfect fright! 

SIR STEPHEN. I won't believc it. 

PEGGIE. Yes, I did, I assure you. So at the last moment 



58 THE GOAL 

I had the long sleeves taken out and the short sleeves 

dodged up with lace. Which do you Uke best? Long 

sleeves or short sleeves? 
SIR STEPHEN. Long sleeves for ugly arms — short sleeves for 

beautiful arms! 
PEGGIE (frowning at him and shaking her head). Ah! What 

do you think of the bodice? 
SIR STEPHEN. Enchanting! 
PEGGIE. It is rather neat, isn't it? 
SIR STEPHEN. Neat? I should call it gorgeous! 
PEGGIE. Oh, you must see the one I've got for the Lard- 

ner's dance next Monday. Would you like to see it? 
SIR STEPHEN. Very much — on Monday. 
PEGGIE. I'll run in for a moment before I go. 

SIR STEPHEN. Do. 

PEGGIE. That's a square-cut bodice. This is a round-cut 
bodice. Which do you like best? Round-cut bodices, or 
square-cut bodices? 

SIR STEPHEN. To-uight I Hkc round-cut bodices. On Mon- 
day I think I shall prefer square-cut bodices. 

PEGGIE. I think I prefer a square-cut bodice. I had a 
square-cut bodice to this at first. I looked a perfect 
monster, so I had it taken out and this round-cut bodice 
put in. I'm not sure that it's quite right now, and I've 
tried it on fifty times — I'm worrying you to death. 

SIR STEPHEN. No! Uo! 

PEGGIE. Yes, I am, and I can't stay five minutes. Are 
you sure you wouldn't rather have the ball put off? We 
will put it off even now, if you wish. 

SIR STEPHEN. Not for the world! not for the world! 

PEGGIE. That's so good of you! But I really think you'll 
be better to-morrow. I'm sure you will. You aren't 
really very ill, are you? Do you like this embroidery? 
[Pointing to trimming on her skirt. 

SIR STEPHEN. It's beautiful! Isn't it Indian work? 

PEGGIE. Yes; handmade. It took a man twelve or fifteen 
years to make this one strip. 



THE GOAL 59 



SIR STEPHEN. A quarter of a lifetime to decorate you for a 
few hours. It was time well spent. Ah, Peggie, that's 
the sum and meaning of all our toil and money-grubbing! 

PEGGIE. What is.'' 

SIR STEPHEN. To make our women-folk beautiful. It all 
comes to that in the end. Let Nature and Art knock 
their heads together till doomsday, they'll never teach 
one another any finer trick than to show a beautiful 
maiden to a handsome young fellow, or a handsome young 
fellow to a beautiful maiden. 

[Peggie has got behind him and is admiring herself in the 
glass. 

PEGGIE. Really! Really! Yes, I suppose you're right. 
You're sure I'm not worrying you 

SIR STEPHEN. No, no. Don't go. I'm quite at leisure now 
to the end of my life. 

PEGGIE. Oh, you mustn't talk like that! So I may tell 
mamma that you like my dress .f* What do you think of 
the skirt? 

SIR STEPHEN. Isu't there too much trimming on it.'* 

PEGGIE. Oh, no! Oh, no! 

SIR STEPHEN. Ycs, there's too much trimming. 

PEGGIE. Oh, no ! Oh, no ! The dressmaker said there wasn't 
enough. 

SIR STEPHEN. Stupid hussics, dressmakers! They're like 
other folks! They're always the last to know anything 
about their own business. Tell your dressmaker that 
simplicity is the keynote of a great style in dressmaking, 
and engineering — subtle simplicity. The next time she is 
going to make you a dress, tell her to take a walk through 
our National Gallery 

PEGGIE. Oh, Sir Stephen, you surely wouldn't dress me like 
those old guys in the National Gallery! What would my 
partners say? 

SIR STEPHEN. Your partners! Ah, you pretty tyrant, you'll 
turn a great many heads, and set a great many hearts 
beating to-night! 



60 



THE GOAL 



PEGGIE. Shall I? Shall I? 

SIR STEPHEN. Why, you'vc set my old worn-out heart flut- 
tering, and, goodness knows, it ought to have done beating 
for pretty girls at seventy-five — it ought to know better 
at seventy-five! But it doesn't, and — {rising with great 
determination) — I've a great mind 

PEGGIE (a little alarmed). Sir Stephen, what are you going 
to do? 

SIR STEPHEN. Don't you remember your promise? 

PEGGIE. My promise? 

SIR STEPHEN. Your birthday party six years ago! You 
danced with me, and you promised that I should be your 
first partner at your first ball after you came out! 

PEGGIE. Of course — I'd forgotten! 

SIR STEPHEN. But I hadn't! Will you keep your promise, 
Peggie? Will you keep your promise? 

PEGGIE. Wouldn't it be dangerous, and — you don't really 
wish it? 

SIR STEPHEN (sinking down). You're right, my dear. I'm 
foolish with old age. Forgive me! 

PEGGIE. I'm sorry to disappoint you. But you'll be able 
to see us dancing across the garden. You can stand at 
that window and look on. 

SIR STEPHEN. Look on ! That's all I'm fit for now — to look 
on at Ufe! 
[Turning away his head. 

PEGGIE. Sir Stephen, what's the matter? 

SIR STEPHEN. I'vc always been in the thick of the fight, 
Peggie. And I feel to-night as strong as ever I did, and 
they tell me I must lay up and look on — (rising with great 
energy and determination) — I won't! I won't! 

PEGGIE. Sir Stephen. 

SIR STEPHEN. I Can't bear it, Peggie. I've enjoyed my life, 
and I don't want to leave it. I want to live, and live, and 
Uve — and I will! Ah, what a selfish old coward I am! 
I'm like a man who has sat down to a good table d'hote, 
and eaten and drunk his fill, and now the host tells me my 



THE GOAL 61 



place is wanted for another guest, I cry out and want to 
have my dinner over again ! Don't take any notice of me, 
dear. Tell me about your partners. Who's going to 
dance with you to-night? 

PEGGIE. Oh, I suppose Mr. Lascelles, Freddie Lister, Lord 
Doverbury, Johnny Butler, Sir Egerton Wendover, Dick 
French — amongst others. 

SIR STEPHEN. Peggie 

PEGGIE. Yes 

SIR STEPHEN. You won't misunderstand me, dear. I'm old 
enough to be your grandfather. {Takes her hand very 
tenderly) You won't misunderstand me. (Very seri- 
ously) Take care how you choose your partner for life. 
You'll have a wide choice, and all your future happiness, 
and the happiness of many generations to come, will de- 
pend on the one moment when you say "Yes" to one of 
the scores of young fellows who'll ask you to be his wife. 
Take care, dear! Take care! Look him thoroughly up 
and down! Be sure that he has a good full open eye that 
can look you straight in the face; and be sure that the 
whites of his eyes are clear. Take care he hasn't got a 
queer-shaped head, or a low forehead. A good round 
head, and a good full high forehead, do you hear.'' Notice 
the grip of his hand when he shakes hands with you! 
Take care it's strong and firm, and not cold and dry. No 
young man should have a cold, dry hand. Don't say 
"Yes" till you've seen him out of trousers, in riding dress, 
or court dress. Look at the shape of his legs — a good, 
well-shaped leg, eh, Peggie? And take care it is his leg! 
See that he's well-knit and a little lean, not flabby; doesn't 
squint; doesn't stammer; hasn't got any nervous tricks or 
twitchings. Don't marry a bald man! They say we shall 
all be bald in ten generations. Wait ten generations, 
Peggie, and then don't marry a bald man! Can you re- 
member all this, dear? Watch his walk! See that he 
has a good springy step, and feet made of elastic — can do 
his four or five miles an hour without turning a hair. 



62 THE GOAL 



Don't have him if he has a cough in the winter or the spring. 
Young men ought never to have a cough. And be sure 
he can laugh well and heartily — not a snigger, or a wheeze, 
or a cackle, but a good, deep, hearty laugh right down 
from the bottom of his chest. And if he has a little money, 
or even a good bit, so much the better! There now! You 
choose a man like that, Peggie, and I won't promise 
you that you'll be happy, but if you're not, it won't 
be your fault, and it won't be his, and it won't be 
mine! 

PEGGIE. Very well. Sir Stephen, I'll try and remember. 

SIR STEPHEN. Do, my dear, do! It's a good legacy, my 
dear. I've left you another. You won't be disappointed 
when my will's read 

PEGGIE. Oh, Sir Stephen! 

SIR STEPHEN. No, you wou't; but remember my advice 
to-night. That's the best wedding present for any 
girl. 

PEGGIE. Very well. Sir Stephen! I must be going. Good-bye. 
[Giving her hand. 

SIR STEPHEN. Ycs, I suppose you mustn't stay. (Taking 
her hand, keeping it as he had kept Crane^s, as if he couldn't 
bear to let her go) Good-bye. 

[Looking longingly at her with a mute entreaty to stay. Peggie 
draws her hand away, puts on cloak, and goes to door, left. 
He watches her all the while. 

PEGGIE {at door, runs back to him). Sir Stephen, I'll keep 
my promise. You shall be my first partner. (Offering 
her card) Write your name down for my first dance. 

SIR STEPHEN. But I shan't be there. 

PEGGIE. I'll sit out, and keep it for you. 

SIR STEPHEN. No, nO 

PEGGIE. Yes, yes! I insist. Put your name down! 

[He writes on her card. Enter Nurse, left. 
PEGGIE. Good-bye, Sir Stephen. 
SIR STEPHEN. Good-bye, Peggie! (Softly) Peggie! Her 

name was Peggie! My wife's name was Peggie! 



THE GOAL 63 



[She bends and kisses his forehead; then goes to door, turns 
and looks at him. 

PEGGIE. Au 'voir. 

[Blows him a kiss and exit. Sir Stephen looks longingly 
after her, walks a little up and down the room. 

NURSE (anxiously). Sir Stephen, don't you think you might 
He down now? 

SIR STEPHEN. Run away ! Run away ! 

NURSE. Won't you rest a little on the sofa? 

SIR STEPHEN. Run away! Run away! 

NURSE. Can I get you anything? 

SIR STEPHEN. Run away ! Run away! (Pacing up and 
down) Mr. Daniel Famariss hasn't come yet? 

NURSE. No. You know they said that he was away survey- 
ing in an out-of-the-way country, where no message could 
reach him. 

SIR STEPHEN. If he should come too late, tell him — tell him 
— I've gone surveying in an out-of-the-way country — 
where no message can reach me! (Changing tone) Dear 
me, Nurse, I'm afraid this dying is going to be a very 
tiresome business for both of us! 

NURSE. Oh, Sir Stephen, I'm sure I don't mind! 

SIR STEPHEN. You don't mind? That's very good of you. 
You're in no hurry? Well, neither am I. 

NURSE, Sir Stephen, don't you think 

SIR STEPHEN. What? 

NURSE. Last night you said you'd send for a clergyman. 

SIR STEPHEN. Did I? That was at two o'clock in the morn- 
ing. How horribly demoralized a man gets at two o'clock 
in the morning! 

NURSE. But, Sir Stephen 

SIR STEPHEN. Well? 

NURSE. Don't you think you ought to begin to think of 

better things? 
SIR STEPHEN. Well. I'm seventy-five. Perhaps it is nearly 

time. What better things? 
NURSE. Death and — judgment. 



64 THE GOAL 

SIR STEPHEN. Don't talk nonsense. I don't call death and 
judgment better things. 

NURSE. But, Sir Stephen— you will be judged. 

SIR STEPHEN. Judged? Yes. But I shan't be judged by 
the prayers I've said, and the psalms I've sung. I shan't 
be judged by the lies I've told, and the deceits I've prac- 
tised, and the passions I've given way to. I shan't be 
judged by the evil and rottenness in me. No; I shall be 
judged by the railways I've made, and the canals I've 
scooped, and the bridges I've built — and let me tell you, 
my dear creature, my accounts are in good order, and 
ready for inspection at any moment, and I believe there's 
a good balance on my side. (Guests have been assembling 
in the ballroom. Dance music bursts out. Dancing begins) 
Ah! What tune is that? 

[Goes up to window, begins dancing a few steps, swaying with 
the music. 

NURSE (frightened). Sir Stephen! Sir Stephen! 

SIR STEPHEN. Run away! Run away! 

NURSE. Sir Stephen, you wouldn't be found dancing at the 
end? 

SIR STEPHEN. Why not? I've done my work ! Why shouldn't 
I play for a little while? (A bell is heard) Hark! The front 
door beU ■ 

NURSE. Yes. 
[Goes to door, left. 

SIR STEPHEN. Go dowustairs and see if that's my son. If 

it is, tell him 

[Gentle knock at door, left. Adams enters a step. The dancing 
and music are continued in the ballroom. 

ADAMS. I beg pardon. Sir Stephen. Mr. Daniel Famariss 
has arrived 

SIR STEPHEN. Ah! 

[Getting excited. 
ADAMS. And would like to see you. 
SIR STEPHEN. Tell him he knows the conditions. 
NURSE. But, Sir Stephen 



THE GOAL 65 



SIR STEPHEN. Ruu away, my good soul! Run away. {To 
Adams) He knows the conditions. If he accepts them, I 
shall be pleased to see him. 

DAN {voice outside door). Father! 

SIR STEPHEN. Shut that door! 

[Adams nearly closes door, which is kept open a few inches 
from the other side. 

DAN {outside). Father! You won't shut the door in my 
face? 

SIR STEPHEN. Keep on that side of it, then. Adams, you 
can go. Leave the door ajar. 

[Exit Adams, left. Sir Stephen, with an imperious gesture, 
points Nurse to archicay right. Exit Nurse, into bedroom, 
with an appealing gesture to Sir Stephen. 

SIR STEPHEN {goes to door, left; it is still open a few inches) . 
Are you there, Dan? 

DAN {outside). Yes, father. 

SIR STEPHEN. I vowed I'd never set eyes on you again, till 
you owned you were wrong about those girders. You were 
wrong? {No reply) You were wrong? {No reply) Do you 
hear? Confound you, you know you were wrong! {No 
reply) Do you hear, Dan? Why won't you say you were 
wrong? You won't! {Slams door, goes right, has an outburst 
of anger, recovers, listens, goes back to door, opens it a little) 
Are you there, Dan? 

DAN {outside). Yes, father. 

SIR STEPHEN. You Were wrong, Dan. {No reply) I haven't 
got long to live, Dan. It's angina pectoris, and the next 
attack will kill me. It may come at any moment. {Very 
piteously) Dan, you were wrong? Why won't you say so? 
Even if you tell a lie about it? 

DAN {outside). I was wrong. 

SIR STEPHEN. Ah! {FUngs open the door, Dan runs in. Sir 
Stephen meets him, embraces him affectionately, ivith a half 
sob) Why didn't you say it before? You knew how much 
I loved you. Why did you keep apart from me all these 
years? 



66 



THE GOAL 



DAN. I'm sorry, sir. But perhaps it was for the best. I've 
done very well. 

SIR STEPHEN. Of course you have. You're my son. But 
how much better you'd have done if you had stuck 
to me! How much better we both should have done! 
I'm sorry, too, Dan. I was wrong, too — not about 
the girders. You loere wrong about them, Dan. But 
I was wrong to be angry and to swear I wouldn't 
see you. Ah, what could I have done with you 
at my side! I could have carried out my Milford 
Haven scheme. Perhaps it isn't too late! {Going to 
bureau, getting more and more excited) I've got all the 

plans here 

[Taking out a heap of plans. 

DAN. Not now, father; not now! 

SIR STEPHEN. Yes, now, my boy! To-morrow may be too 
late! {Going to table) Come here, my lad! Oh, Dan, 
what years we've wasted! Come here! I want you to 
carry this out. You'll have immense opposition. Beat it 
down! You'll have to buy Shad well and his lot. They're 
a dirty gang. But you'll have to do it. I hate bribery, 
Dan; but when you've got to do it, do it thoroughly! 
Then there's Mincham. Buy him over, if you can, at a 
small figure — say a thousand pounds — he's a mean little 
cur; but offer him that, and if he won't take it, snap your 
fingers at him, and swamp him ! Remember the trick, the 
scoundrel's trick, he served me over the granite for the 
viaduct. Remember it, Dan, and don't spare him! 
Swamp him! Swamp him!* 
[With great energy of hate. 

DAN. Father 

SIR STEPHEN. Bring your chair up. I must go on now — 
while it's all before me! I want you to carry this Milford 
Haven scheme out! I want it to be said that what old 
Stephen Famariss couldn't do, young Dan Famariss could! 
The father was a great man, the son shall be a greater, eh? 
* 1 Kings, chap, ii., verses 8, 9. 



THE GOAL 67 



Look here, you must start on this side. I've had all the 
soundings made 

DAN. To-morrow, father; to-morrow! 

SIR STEPHEN. No, now! There's no such thing as to- 
morrow! We'll go through it now — in case There's 

a great world-tussle coming, Dan — I shan't live to see it — 
but it's coming, and the engineer that ties England and 
America will do a good turn to both countries. England to 
America in four days! I want that crown to rest on your 
head! Look! You must begin here! Look! Just there! 

You must throw a bridge over 

[Stops suddenly, puts his hand to his heart; his face indicates 
intense agony. Nurse enters from bedroom. 

DAN. Father 

SIR STEPHEN {persisting, with a wild aimless gesture). Throw 
a bridge from here — to the other side, and then 

DAN. Father, what is it.? 

SIR STEPHEN. The end, Dan. (His face shows that he is 
suffering great pain. A great burst of dance music. They 
offer to support him. He waves them off) No, thank you. 
I'll die standing. England to America in four days. 
(Long pause. He stands bolt upright unth great determina- 
tion) You were wrong about those girders, Dan — My 
Peggie — I wonder if it's all moonshine — Peggie — My 

Peggie 

[Dies, tumbles over table. Music and dancing in ballroom 
louder than ever. 

CURTAIN. 



SALOME 

OSCAR WILDE 

Oscar Wilde was born in Dublin in 1854. His early 
education was received in his native country; after three 
years at Trinity College, Dublin, he completed his academic 
course at Oxford. While still at Oxford his reputation as a 
wit and an "esthete" had begun to spread, and when in 
1881 he published his first book, a volume of poems, he was 
already famous. His first play, "Vera, or the Nihilists", 
appeared two years afterward. "The Duchess of Padua", a 
verse tragedy, followed in 1891. In 1884 Wilde married, and 
devoted his time entirely to writing, editorial work, and lec- 
turing. The important plays — " Lady Windermere's Fan ", 
"A Woman of No Importance", "An Ideal Husband", and 
"The Importance of Being Earnest" — were performed in 
London during the height of the author's brilliant career, 
between 1892 and 1895. That career was cut short in 1895 
when Wilde was sentenced to two years' imprisonment at 
hard labor following a trial that roused the entire civilized 
world. On leaving prison Wilde adopted the name of 
Sebastian Melmoth and went to France; there and at Naples 
he dragged out the few remaining years of his life. He died 
in Paris in 1900. 

In his "De Profundis" Wilde said: "I took the drama, the 
most objective form known to art, and made of it as personal 
a mode of expression as the lyric or the sonnet; at the same 
time I widened its range and enriched its characterization." 
This refers particularly to the modern plays. "Salome", 
originally written in French for production by Sarah Bern- 
hardt, is rather a decorative panel than the expression of a 
dramatic idea; it is, however, a distinctly personal expression 
of a mood; but about all, it is an eflfective drama. 



70 SALOME 

PLAYS 

Plays marked with * are in one act only. 

Vera, or the Nihilists (1883) An Ideal Husband (1895) 
The Duchess of Padua (1891) The Importance of Being 
Lady Windermere's Fan Earnest (1895) 

(1892) *Salome (1896) 
A Woman of No Importance 

(1893) 

All of Wilde's finished plays are published in a single 
volume, "The Plays of Oscar Wilde", by H. S. Nichols, New 
York. 

References: Leonard Cresswell Ingleby, "Oscar Wilde", 
T. Werner Laurie, London; Arthur Ransome, "Oscar Wilde", 
Mitchell Kennerly, New York; Robert Sherrard, "The Real 
Oscar Wilde", Greening and Company, London; Lord Alfred 
Douglas, "Oscar Wilde and Myself", John Lane, New York; 
Anna, Comtesse de Bremont, "Oscar Wilde and his Mother", 
Everett and Company, London; W. W. Kenil worth, "A 
Study of Oscar Wilde", Fenno, London; Archibald Hender- 
son, "European Dramatists", Stewart and Kidd, Cincinnati. 

Magazines: Current Literature, vol. xxxxix, 156, vol. xli, 
518, vol. xliv, 287, New York; Arena, vol. xxxviii, p. 134, 
New York; Dial, vol. xlviii, p. 261, New York; Bookman, 
vol. xxxiv, p. 389, New York; Nation, vol. xcviii, pp. 566 and 
598, and vol. xcix, p. 374, New York. 



SALOME 
BY OSCAR WILDE 



'Salome" was first produced at Paris, in 1896. 

Characters 

Herod Antipas, Tetrarch of Judcea 

loKANAAN, the Prophet 

The Young Syrian, Captain of the Guard 

TiGELLiNUS, a Young Roman 

A Cappadocian 

A Nubian 

First Soldier 

Second Soldier 

The Page of Herodias 

Jews, Nazarenes, etc. 

A Slave 

Naajman, the Executioner 

Herodias, Wife of the Tetrarch 

Salome, Daughter of Herodias 

The Slaves of Salome 



SALOME 

Scene. A great terrace in the Palace of Herod, set above the 
banqueting-halL Some soldiers are leaning over the balcony. 
To the right there is a gigantic staircase, to the left, at the back, 
an old cistern surrounded by a wall of green bronze. The moon 
is shining very brightly. 
THE YOUNG SYRIAN. How beautiful is the Princess Salome 

to-night ! 
THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. Look at the moon. How strange 

the moon seems ! She is like a woman rising from a tomb. 

She is Hke a dead woman. One might fancy she was 

looking for dead things. 
THE YOUNG SYRIAN. She has a strange look. She is like 

a Uttle princess who wears a yellow veil, and whose feet 

are of silver. She is like a princess who has little white 

doves for feet. One might fancy she was dancing. 
THE PAGE OF HERODIAS. She is Hke a woman who is dead. 

She moves very slowly. 

[Noise in the banqueting-hall. 
FIRST SOLDIER. What an uproar! Who are those wild 

beasts howling.? 
SECOND SOLDIER. The Jews. They are always like that. 

They are disputing about their religion. 
FIRST SOLDIER. Why do they dispute about their religion? 
SECOND SOLDIER. I Cannot tell. They are always doing it. 

The Pharisees, for instance, say that there are angels, and 

the Sadducees declare that angels do not exist. 
FIRST SOLDIER. I think it is ridiculous to dispute about such 

things. 
THE YOUNG SYRIAN. How bcautiful IS the Princess Salome 

to-night! 



74 SALOME 



THE PAGE OF HERODIAS. You are always looking at her. 

You look at her too much. It is dangerous to look at 

people in such fashion. Something terrible may happen. 
THE YOUNG SYRIAN. She is Very beautiful to-night. 
FIRST SOLDIER. The Tetrarch has a sombre aspect. 
SECOND SOLDIER. Ycs; he has a sombre aspect. 
FIRST SOLDIER. He is looking at something. 
SECOND SOLDIER. He is looking at some one. 
FIRST SOLDIER. At whom is he looking? 
SECOND SOLDIER. I canuot tell. 
THE YOUNG SYRIAN. How pale the Princess is ! Never have 

I seen her so pale. She is like the shadow of a white rose 

in a mirror of silver. 
THE PAGE OF HERODIAS. You must not look at her. You 

look too much at her. 
FIRST SOLDIER. Herodias has filled the cup of the Tetrarch. 
THE CAPPADOciAN. Is that the Queen Herodias, she who 

wears a black mitre sewed with pearls^ and whose hair is 

powdered with blue dust? 
FIRST SOLDIER. Ycs; that is Herodias, the Tetrarch's wife. 
SECOND SOLDIER. The Tctrarch is very fond of wine. He 

has wine of three sorts. One which is brought from the 

Island of Samothrace, and is purple like the cloak of Caesar. 
THE CAPPADOCIAN. I have never seen Csesar. 
SECOND SOLDIER. Another that comes from a town called 

Cyprus, and is as yellow as gold. 

THE CAPPADOCIAN. I loVC gold. 

SECOND SOLDIER. And the third is a wine of Sicily. That 

wine is as red as blood, 
THE NUBIAN. The gods of my country are very fond of 

blood. Twice in the year we sacrifice to them young men 

and maidens; fifty young men and a hundred maidens. 

But I am afraid that we never give them quite enough, for 

they are very harsh to us. 
THE CAPPADOCIAN. In my country there are no gods left. 

The Romans have driven them out. There are some who 

say that they have hidden themselves in the mountains, 



SALOME 75 

but I do not believe it. Three nights I have been on the 
mountains seeking them everywhere. I did not find them, 
and at last I called them by their names, and they did not 
come. I think they are dead. 

FIRST SOLDIER. The Jcws worship a God that one cannot 
see. 

THE CAPPADOCIAN. I caunot Understand that. 

FIRST SOLDIER. In fact, they only believe in things that one 
cannot see. 

THE CAPPADOCIAN. That seems to me altogether ridiculous. 

THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. After me shall come another 
mightfer than I. I am not worthy so much as to unloose 
the latchet of his shoes. When he cometh the solitary 
places shall be glad. They shall blossom like the rose. 
The eyes of the blind shall see the day, and the ears of the 
deaf shall be opened. The sucking child shall put his hand 
upon the dragon's lair, he shall lead the lions by their 
manes. 

SECOND SOLDIER. Make him be silent. He is always say- 
ing ridiculous things. 

FIRST SOLDIER. No, no. He is a holy man. He is very 
gentle, too. Every day when I give him to eat he thanks 
me. 

THE CAPPADOCIAN. Who is lie? 

FIRST SOLDIER. A prophet. 

THE CAPPADOCIAN. What is his name? 

FIRST SOLDIER. lokanaan. 

THE CAPPADOCIAN. Whence comes he? 

FIRST SOLDIER. From the desert, where he fed on locusts 
and wild honey. He was clothed in camel's hair, and 
round his loins he had a leathern belt. He was very ter- 
rible to look upon. A great multitude used to follow him. 
He even had disciples. 

THE CAPPADOCIAN. What is he talking of? 

FIRST SOLDIER. We cau never tell. Sometimes he says 
things that affright one, but it is impossible to understand 
what he says. 



76 SALOME 

THE CAPPADOCIAN. May one see him? 

FIRST SOLDIER, No. The Tetrarch has forbidden it. 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. The Princess has hidden her face be- 
hind her fan! Her little white hands are fluttering like 
doves that fly to their dove-cots. They are like white 
butterflies. They are just like white butterflies. 

THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. What is that to you? Why do you 
look at her? You must not look at her. Something ter- 
rible may happen. 

THE CAPPADOCIAN (pointing to the cistern). What a strange 



prison 



SECOND SOLDIER. It is an old cistern. 

THE CAPPADOCIAN. An old cistem! That must be a poison- 
ous place in which to dwell! 

SECOND SOLDIER. Oh, no! For instance, the Tetrarch's 
brother, his elder brother, the first husband of Herodias, 
the Queen, was imprisoned there for twelve years. It did 
not kill him. At the end of the twelve years he had to be 
strangled. 

THE CAPPADOCIAN. Strangled? Who dared to do that? 

SECOND SOLDIER (pointing to the executioner, a huge negro). 
That man yonder, Naaman. 

THE CAPPADOCIAN. He was not afraid? 

SECOND SOLDIER. Oh, uo! The Tetrarch sent him the ring. 

THE CAPPADOCIAN. What ring? 

SECOND SOLDIER. The death ring. So he was not afraid. 

THE CAPPADOCIAN. Yet it is a terrible thing to strangle a 
king. 

FIRST SOLDIER. Why? Kings have but one neck, like other 
folk. 

THE CAPPADOCIAN. I think it terrible. 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. The Priuccss is getting up! She is 
leaving the table! She looks very troubled. Ah, she is 
coming this way. Yes, she is coming towards us. How 
pale she is! Never have I seen her so pale. 

THE PAGE OF HERODIAS. Do uot look at her. I pray you 
not to look at her. 



SALOME 77 



THE YOUNG SYRIAN. She is like a dove that has strayed. She 
is like a narcissus trembling in the wind. She is like a 
silver flower. 
[Enter Salome. 

SALOME. I will not stay. I cannot stay. Why does the 
Tetrarch look at me all the while with his mole's eyes 
under his shaking eyelids? It is strange that the husband 
of my mother looks at me like that. I know not what it 
means. Of a truth, I know it too well. 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. You havc left the feast. Princess? 

SALOME. How sweet is the air here! I can breathe here! 
Within there are Jews from Jerusalem who are tearing each 
other in pieces over their foolish ceremonies, and barbarians 
who drink and drink, and spill their wine on the pavement, 
and Greeks from Smyrna with painted eyes and painted 
cheeks, and frizzed hair curled in columns, and Egyptians 
silent and subtle, with long nails of jade and russet cloaks, 
and Romans brutal and coarse, with their uncouth jargon. 
Ah! how I loathe the Romans ! They are rough and com- 
mon, and they give themselves the airs of noble lords. 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Will you be seated. Princess? 

THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. Why do you spcak to her? Oh! 
something terrible will happen. Why do you look at her? 

SALOME. How good to scc the moon! She is like a little 
piece of money, a little silver flower. She is cold and 
chaste. I am sure she is a virgin. She has the beauty of 
a virgin. Yes, she is a virgin. She has never defiled her- 
self. She has never abandoned herself to men, like the 
other goddesses. 

THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. Behold ! the Lord hath come. The 
Son of Man is at hand. The centaurs have hidden them- 
selves in the rivers, and the nymphs have left the rivers, 
and are lying beneath the leaves in the forests. 

SALOME. Who was that who cried out? 

SECOND SOLDIER. The prophet, Princess. 

SALOME. Ah, the prophet! He of whom the Tetrarch is 
afraid? 



78 SALOME 



SECOND SOLDIER. We know nothing of that. Princess. It 

was the prophet lokanaan who cried out. 
THE YOUNG SOLDIER. Is it your pleasure that I bid them 

bring your Utter, Princess? The night is fair in the 

garden. 
SALOME. He says terrible things about my mother, does he 

not? 
SECOND SOLDIER. We nevcF understand what he says. 

Princess. 
SALOME. Yes; he says terrible things about her. 

[Enter a slave. 
THE SLAVE. Priuccss, the Tetrarch prays you to return to 

the feast. 
SALOME. I will not return. 
THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Pardon me. Princess, but if you return 

not some misfortune may happen. 
SALOME. Is he an old man, this prophet? 
THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Priuccss, it Were better to return. Suffer 

me to lead you in. 
SALOME. This prophet, is he an old man? 
FIRST SOLDIER. No, Princess, he is quite young. 
SECOND SOLDIER. One cannot be sure. There are those who 

say that he is Elias. 
SALOME. Who is Elias? 
SECOND SOLDIER. A prophet of this country in bygone days. 

Princess. 
THE SLAVE. What auswcr may I give the Tetrarch from 

the Princess? 
THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. Rejoice uot, O land of Palestine, 

because the rod of him who smote thee is broken. For 

from the seed of the serpent shall come a basilisk, and that 

which is born of it shall devour the birds. 
SALOME. What a strange voice! I would speak with him. 
FIRST SOLDIER, I fear it may not be, Princess. The Tet- 
rarch does not suffer any one to speak with him. He has 

even forbidden the high priest to speak with him. 
SALOME. I desire to speak with him. 



SALOME 79 



FIRST SOLDIER. It is impossible. Princess. 

SALOME. I will speak with him. 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Would it not be better to return to the 

banquet? 
SALOME. Bring forth this prophet. 

[Exit the slave. 
FIRST SOLDIER. We dare not, Princess. 
SALOME {approaching the cistern and looking down into it). 

How black it is down there! It must be terrible to be in 

so black a hole ! It is like a tomb. (To the soldiers) Did 

you not hear me? Bring out the prophet. I would look 

on him, 
SECOND SOLDIER. Priuccss, I beg you, do not require this 

of us. 
SALOME. You are making me wait upon your pleasure. 
FIRST SOLDIER. Princcss, our lives belong to you, but we 

cannot do what you have asked of us. And indeed, it is 

not of us that you should ask this thing. 
SALOME {looking at the young Syrian). Ah! 
THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. Oh, what is goiug to happen? I am 

sure that something terrible will happen. 
SALOME {going up to the young Syrian). Thou wilt do this 

thing for me, wilt thou not, Narraboth? Thou wilt do 

this thing for me. I have ever been kind towards thee. 

Thou wilt do it for me. I would but look at him, this 

strange prophet. Men have talked so much of him. 

Often I have heard the Tetrarch talk of him. I think he 

is afraid of him, the Tetrarch. Art thou, even thou, also 

afraid of him, Narraboth? 
THE YOUNG SYRIAN. I fear him not. Princess; there is no 

man I fear. But the Tetrarch has formally forbidden that 

any man should raise the cover of this well. 
SALOME. Thou wilt do this thing for me, Narraboth, and 

to-morrow when I pass in my litter beneath the gateway 

of the idol-sellers, I will let fall for thee a little flower, a 

little green flower. 
THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Priucess, I caunot, I cannot. 



80 SALOME 

SALOME (smiling). Thou wilt do this thing for me, Narra- 
both. Thou knowest that thou wilt do this thing for me. 
And on the morrow when I shall pass in my litter by the 
bridge of the idol-buyers, I will look at thee through the 
muslin veils; I will look at thee, Narraboth; it may be I 
will smile at thee. Look at me, Narraboth; look at me. 
Ah! thou knowest that thou wilt do what I ask of thee. 
Thou knowest it. I know that thou wilt do this thing. 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN {signing to the third soldier). Let the 
prophet come forth. The Princess Salome desires to see 
him. 

SALOME. Ah ! 

THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. Oh! How strange the moon looks! 
Like the hand of a dead woman who is seeking to cover 
herself with a shroud. 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. She has a strange aspect! She is like 
a little Princess, whose eyes are eyes of amber. Through 
the clouds of muslin she is smiling like a little Princess. 
[The prophet comes out of the cistern. Salome looks at him 
and steps slowly back. 

lOKANAAN. Where is he whose cup of abominations is now 
full? Where is he, who in a robe of silver shall one day 
die in the face of all the people.? Bid him come forth, that 
he may hear the voice of him who hath cried in the waste 
places and in the houses of kings. 

SALOME. Of whom is he speaking? 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. No ouc Can tell. Princess. 

lOKANAAN. Where is she who saw the images of men 
painted on the walls, even the images of the Chaldseans 
painted with colors, and gave herself up unto the lust of 
her eyes, and sent ambassadors into the land of the 
Chaldseans? 

SALOME. It is of my mother that he is speaking. 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Oh, uo, Priucess. 

SALOME. Yes; it is of my mother that he is speaking. 

lOKANAAN. Where is she who gave herself unto the Captains 
of Assyria, who have baldricks on their loins, and crowns 



SALOME 81 



of many colors on their heads? Where is she who hath 
given herself to the young men of the Egyptians, who are 
clothed in fine linen and hyacinth, whose shields are of 
gold, whose helmets are of silver, whose bodies are mighty? 
Go, bid her rise up from the bed of her abominations, from 
the bed of her incestuousness, that she may hear the words 
of him who prepareth the way of the Lord, that she may 
repent of her iniquities. Though she will not repent, but 
will stick fast in her abominations, go bid her come, for 
the fan of the Lord is in His hand. 

SALOME. Ah, but he is terrible, he is terrible! 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Do not stay here, Princess, I beseech 
you. 

SALOME. It is his eyes above all that are terrible. They are 
like black holes burned by torches in the tapestry of Tyre. 
They are like the black cavern where the dragons live, the 
black caverns of Egypt, in which the dragons make their 
lairs. They are like black lakes troubled by fantastic 
moons. Do you think he will speak again? 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Do not stay here, Princess. I pray 
you do not stay here. 

SALOME. How wasted he is! He is like a thin ivory statue. 
He is like an image of silver. I am sure he is chaste, as 
the moon is. He is like a moonbeam, like a shaft of silver. 
His flesh must be very cold, cold as ivory. I would look 
closer at him. 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. No, no, Princess! 

SALOME. I must look at him closer. 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Princcss! Priuccss! 

lOKANAAN. Who is this woman who is looking at me? I 
will not have her look at me. Wherefore doth she look at 
me with her golden eyes, under her gilded eyelids? I 
know not who she is. I do not desire to know who she 
is. Bid her begone. It is not to hear her that I would 
speak. 

SALOME. I am Salome, daughter of Herodias, Princess of 
Judaea. 



82 SALOME 

lOKANAAN. Back! daughter of Babylon! Come not near 
the chosen of the Lord. Thy mother hath filled the earth 
with the wine of her iniquities, and the cry of her sinning 
hath come up even to the ears of God. 

SALOME. Speak again, lokanaan. Thy voice is as music to 
mine ear. 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Princcss! Princess! Princess! 

SALOME. Speak again ! Speak again, lokanaan, and tell me 
what I must do. 

lOKANAAN. Daughter of Sodom, come not near me! But 
cover thy face with a veil, and scatter ashes upon thine 
head, and get thee to the desert, and seek out the Son of 
Man. 

SALOME. Who is he, the Son of Man? Is he as beautiful as 
thou art, lokanaan? 

lOKANAAN. Get thee behind me! I hear in the palace the 
beating of the wings of the angel of death. 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Princess, I beseech thee to go within. 

lOKANAAN. Angel of the Lord God, what dost thou here 
with thy sword? Whom seekest thou in the palace? The 
day of him who shall die in a robe of silver has not yet come. 

SALOME. lokanaan! 

lOKANAAN. Who speaketh? 

SALOME. I am amorous of thy body, lokanaan! Thy body 
is white, like the lilies of the field that the mower hath 
never mowed. Thy body is white like the snows that lie 
on the mountains of Judsea, and come down into the val- 
leys. The roses in the gardens of the Queen of Arabia are 
not so white as thy body. Neither the roses in the garden 
of the Queen of Arabia, the garden of spices of the Queen 
of Arabia, nor the feet of the dawn when they light on the 
leaves, nor the breast of the moon when she lies on the 
breast of the sea. There is nothing in this world so white 
as thy body. Suffer me to touch thy body. 

lOKANAAN. Back! daughter of Babylon! By woman came 
evil into the world. Speak not to me. I will not listen 
to thee. I listen but to the voice of the Lord God. 



SALOME 83 



SALOME. Thy body is hideous. It is like the body of a 
leper. It is like a plastered wall, where vipers have 
crawled; like a plastered wall where the scorpions have 
made their nest. It Is like a whited sepulchre, full of 
loathsome things. It is horrible; thy body is horrible. It 
is of thy hair I am enamoured, lokanaan. Thy hair is 
like clusters of grapes, like the clusters of black grapes 
that hang from the vine-trees of Edom in the land of the 
Edomites. Thy hair is like the cedars of Lebanon, like 
the great cedars of Lebanon that give their shade to the 
lions and to the robbers who would hide them by day. 
The long black nights, when the moon hides her face, when 
the stars are afraid, are not so black as thy hair. The 
silence that dwells in the forest is not so black. There is 
nothing in the world that is so black as thy hair. Suffer 
me to touch thy hair. 

lOKANAAN. Back, daughter of Sodom! Touch me not. 
Profane not the temple of the Lord God. 

SALOME. Thy hair is horrible. It is covered with mire and 
dust. It is like a crown of thorns placed on thy head. 
It is like a knot of serpents coiled round thy neck. I love 
not thy hair. It is thy mouth that I desire, lokanaan. 
Thy mouth is like a band of scarlet on a tower of ivory. 
It is like a pomegranate cut in twain with a knife of ivory. 
The pomegranate flowers that blossom in the gardens of 
Tyre, and are redder than roses, are not so red. The red 
blasts of trumpets that herald the approach of kings, and 
make afraid the enemy, are not so red. Thy mouth is 
redder than the feet of those who tread the wine in the 
wine-press. It is redder than the feet of the doves who 
inhabit the temples and are fed by the priests. It is redder 
than the feet of him who cometh from a forest where he 
hath slain a lion, and seen gilded tigers. Thy mouth is 
like a branch of coral that fishers have found in the twilight 
of the sea, the coral that they keep for the kings! It is 
like the vermilion that the Moabites find in the mines of 
Moab, the vermilion that the kings take from them. It 



84 SALOME 

is like the bow of the King of the Persians, that is tinted 
with vermilion, and is tipped with coral. There is nothing 
in the world so red as thy mouth. Suffer me to kiss thy 
mouth. 

lOKANAAN. Never! daughter of Babylon! Daughter of 
Sodom! never! 

SALOME. I will kiss thy mouth, lokanaan. I will kiss thy 
mouth. 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Princcss, Princess, thou who art like a 
garden of myrrh, thou who art the dove of all doves, look 
not at this man, look not at him ! Do not speak such words 
to him. I cannot endure it. Princess, do not speak these 
things. 

SALOME. I will kiss thy mouth, lokanaan. 

THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Ah! 

[He kills himself, and falls between Salome and lokanaan. 

THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. The young Syrian has slain him- 
self! The young captain has slain himself! He has slain 
himself who was my friend! I gave him a little box of 
perfumes and ear-rings wrought in silver, and now he has 
killed himself! Ah, did he not say that some misfortune 
would happen? I, too, said it, and it has come to pass. 
Well I knew that the moon was seeking a dead thing, but 
I knew not that it was he whom she sought. Ah ! why did 
I not hide him from the moon? If I had hidden him in a 
cavern she would not have seen him. 

FIRST SOLDIER. Princcss, the young captain has just slain 
himself. 

SALOME. Suffer me to kiss thy mouth, lokanaan. 

lOKANAAN. Art thou not afraid, daughter of Herodias? 
Did I not tell thee that I heard in the palace the beating 
of the wings of the angel of death, and hath he not come, 
the angel of death? 

SALOME. Suffer me to kiss thy mouth. 

IOBLA.NAAN. Daughter of adultery, there is but one wh© can 
save thee. It is He of whom I spake. Go seek Him. He 
is in a boat on the sea of Galilee, and He talketh with His 



SALOME 85 



disciples. Kneel down on the shore of the sea, and call 
unto Him by His name. When He cometh to thee, and 
to all who call on Him He cometh, bow thyself at His feet 
and ask of Him the remission of thy sins. 

SALOME. Suffer me to kiss thy mouth. 

lOKANAAN. Cursed be thou! Daughter of an incestuous 
mother, be thou accursed! 

SALOME. I will kiss thy mouth, lokanaan. 

lOKANAAN. I will uot look at thee. Thou art accursed, 
Salome; thou art accursed. 
[He goes down into the cistern. 

SALOME. I will kiss thy mouth, lokanaan. I will kiss thy 
mouth. 

FIRST SOLDIER. We must bear away the body to another 
place. The Tetrarch does not care to see dead bodies, 
save the bodies of those whom he himself has slain. 

THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. He was my brother, and nearer to 
me than a brother. I gave him a little box of perfumes, 
and a ring of agate that he wore always on his hand. In 
the evening we were wont to walk by the river, and among 
the almond-trees, and he used to tell me of the things 
of his country. He spake ever very low. The sound 
of his voice was like the sound of the flute, of one who 
playeth upon the flute. Also he had much joy to gaze 
at himself in the river. I used to reproach him for 
that. 

SECOND SOLDIER. You are right; we must hide the body. 
The Tetrarch must not see it. 

FIRST SOLDIER. The Tctrarch will not come to this place. 
He never comes on the terrace. He is too much afraid of 
the prophet. 
[Enter Herod, Herodias, and all the Court. 

HEROD. Where is Salome? Where is the Princess? Why 
did she not return to the banquet as I commanded her.? 
Ah! there she is! 

HERODIAS. You must uot look at her! You are always 
looking at her! 



86 SALOME 

HEROD. The moon has a strange look to-night. Has she not 
a strange look? She is like a mad woman, and a mad 
woman who is seeking everywhere for lovers. She is 
naked, too. She is quite naked. The clouds are seeking 
to clothe her nakedness, but she will not let them. She 
shows herself naked in the sky. She reels through the 
clouds like a drunken woman. I am sure she is looking 
for lovers. Does she not reel like a drunken woman? She 
is like a mad woman, is she not? 

HERODiAs. No; the moon is like the moon, that is all. Let 
us go within. We have nothing to do here. 

HEROD. I will stay here! Manasseh, lay carpets there. 
Light torches. Bring forth the ivory tables, and the 
tables of jasper. The air here is sweet. I will drink more 
wine with my guests. We must show all honor to the 
ambassadors of Caesar. 

HERODIAS. It is not bccausc of them that you remain. 

HEROD. Yes; the air is very sweet. Come, Herodias, our 
guests await us. Ah! I have slipped! I have slipped in 
blood! It is an ill omen. It is a very ill omen. Wherefore 
is there blood here? And this body, what does this body 
here? Think you I am like the King of Egypt, who gives 
no feast to his guests but that he shows them a corpse? 
Whose is it? I will not look on it. 

FIRST SOLDIER. It is our Captain, sire. It is the young 
Syrian whom you made captain of the guard but three 
days gone. 

HEROD. I issued no order that he should be slain. 

SECOND SOLDIER. He slcw himself, sire. 

HEROD. For what reason? I had made him captain of my 
guard! 

SECOND SOLDIER. We do uot kuow, sire. But with his own 
hand he slew himself. 

HEROD. That seems strange to me. I had thought it was 
but the Roman philosophers who slew themselves. Is it 
not true, Tigellinus, that the philosophers at Rome slay 
themselves? 



SALOME 87 

TiGELLiNUS. There be some who slay themselves, sire. They 
are the Stoics. The Stoics are people of no cultivation. 
They are ridiculous people. I myself regard them as 
being perfectly ridiculous. 

HEROD. I also. It is ridiculous to kill one's self. 

TIGELLINUS. Everybody at Rome laughs at them. The 
Emperor has written a satire against them. It is recited 
everywhere. 

HEROD. Ah! he has written a satire against them? Caesar 
is wonderful. He can do everything. It is strange that 
the young Syrian has slain himself. I am sorry he has slain 
himself. I am very sorry. For he was fair to look upon. 
He was even very fair. He had very languorous eyes. I 
remember that I saw that he looked languorously at 
Salome. Truly, I thought he looked too much at 
her. 

HERODiAS. There are others who look too much at her. 

HEROD. His father was a king. I drove him from his king- 
dom. And of his mother, who was a queen, you made a 
slave, Herodias. So he was here as my guest, as it were, 
and for that reason I made him my captain. I am sorry 
he is dead. Ho! why have you left the body here? It 
must be taken to some other place. I will not look at 
it, — away with it! {They take away the body) It is cold 
here. There is a wind blowing. Is there not a wind 
blowing? 

HERODIAS. No; there is no wind. 

HEROD. I tell you there is a wind that blows. And I hear 
in the air something that is like the beating of wings, like 
the beating of vast wings. Do you not hear it? 

HERODIAS. I hear nothing. 

HEROD. I hear it no longer. But I heard it. It was the 
blowing of the wind. It has passed away. But no, I hear 
it again. Do you not hear it? It is just like a beating 
of wings. 

HERODIAS. I tell you there is nothing. You are ill. Let us 
go within. 



88 SALOME 

HEROD. I am not ill. It is your daughter who is sick to 

death. Never have I seen her so pale. 
HERODiAS. I have told you not to look at her. 
HEROD. Pour me forth wine. {Wine is brought) Salome, 

come drink a little wine with me. I have here a wine that 

is exquisite. Caesar himself sent it me. Dip into it thy 

little red lips, that I may drain the cup. 
SALOME. I am not thirsty, Tetrarch. 
HEROD. You hear how she answers me, this daughter of 

yours? 
HERODIAS. She does right. Why are you always gazing at 

her? 
HEROD. Bring me ripe fruits. (Fruits are brought) Salome, 

come and eat fruits with me. I love to see in a fruit the 

mark of thy little teeth. Bite but a little of this fruit, that 

I may eat what is left. 
SALOME. I am not hungry, Tetrarch. 
HEROD {to Herodias). You see how you have brought up 

this daughter of yours. 
HERODIAS. My daughter and I come of a royal race. As 

for thee, thy father was a camel driver! He was a thief 

and a robber to boot ! 
HEROD. Thou liest! 

HERODIAS. Thou knowcst well that it is true. 
HEROD. Salome, come and sit next to me. I will give thee 

the throne of thy mother. 
SALOME. I am not tired, Tetrarch. 
HERODIAS. You See in what regard she holds you. 
HEROD. Bring me What is it that I desire? I forget. 

Ah! ah! I remember. 
THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. Behold, the time is come! That 

which I foretold has come to pass. The day that I spake 

of is at hand. 
HERODIAS. Bid him be silent. I will not listen to his voice. 

This man is forever hurling insults against me. 
HEROD. He has said nothing against you. Besides, he is a 

very great prophet. 



SALOME 89 



HERODiAS. I do not believe in prophets. Can a man tell 
what will come to pass? No man knows it. Also, he is 
forever insulting me. But I think you are afraid of him. 
I know well that you are afraid of him. 

HEROD. I am not afraid of him. I am afraid of no man. 

HERODIAS. I tell you you are afraid of him. If you are not 
afraid of him, why do you not deliver him to the Jews, 
who for these six months past have been clamoring for 
him? 

A JEW. Truly, my lord, it were better to deliver him into 
our hands. 

HEROD. Enough on this subject. I have already given you 
my answer. I will not deliver him into your hands. He 
is a holy man. He is a man who has seen God. 

A JEW. That cannot be. There is no man who hath seen 
God since the prophet Elias. He is the last man who saw 
God face to face. In these days God doth not show Him- 
self. God hideth Himself. Therefore great evils have 
come upon the land. 

ANOTHER JEW. Verily, no man knoweth if Elias the prophet 
did indeed see God. Peradventure it was but the shadow 
of God that he saw. 

A THIRD JEW. God is at no time hidden. He showeth Him- 
self at all times and in all places. God is in what is evil 
even as He is in what is good. 

A FOURTH JEW. Thou shouldst not say that. It is a very 
dangerous doctrine. It is a doctrine that cometh from 
Alexandria, where men teach the philosophy of the Greeks. 
And the Greeks are Gentiles. They are not even circum- 
sized. 

A FIFTH JEW. No man can tell how God worketh. His ways 
are very dark. It may be that the things which we call 
evil are good, and that the things which we call good are 
evil. There is no knowledge of anything. We can but 
bow our heads to His will, for God is very strong. He 
breaketh in pieces the strong together with the weak, for 
He regardeth not any man. 



90 SALOME 



FIRST JEW. Thou speakest truly. Verily, God is terrible. 
He breaketh in pieces the strong and the weak as men 
break corn in a mortar. But as for this man, he hath 
never seen God. No man hath seen God since the prophet 
Elias. 

HERODiAS. Make them be silent. They weary me. 

HEROD. But I have heard it said that lokanaan is in very 
truth your prophet Elias. 

THE JEW. That cannot be. It is more than three hundred 
years since the days of the prophet Elias. 

HEROD. There be some who say that this man is Elias the 
prophet. 

A NAZARENE. I am sure that he is Elias the prophet. 

THE JEW. Nay, but he is not Elias the prophet. 

THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. Behold the day is at hand, the day 
of the Lord, and I hear upon the mountains the feet of 
Him who shall be the Saviour of the world. 

HEROD. What does that mean? The Saviour of the world? 

TiGELLiNUS. It is a title that Csesar adopts. 

HEROD, But Csesar is not coming into Judaea. Only yes- 
terday I received letters from Rome. They contained 
nothing concerning this matter. And you, Tigellinus, who 
were at Rome during the winter, you heard nothing con- 
cerning this matter, did you? 

TIGELLINUS. Sire, I heard nothing concerning the matter. 
I was but explaining the title. It is one of Caesar's titles. 

HEROD. But Caesar cannot come. He is too gouty. They 
say that his feet are like the feet of an elephant. Also there 
are reasons of state. He who leaves Rome loses Rome. He 
will not come. Howbeit, Csesar is lord, he will come if such 
be his pleasure. Nevertheless, I think he will not come. 

FIRST NAZARENE. It was uot Concerning Csesar that the 
prophet spake these words, sire. 

HEROD. How? — it was not concerning Csesar? 

FIRST NAZARENE. No, my lord. 

HEROD. Concerning whom then did he speak? 

FIRST NAZARENE. Concerning Messias, who hath come. 



SALOME 91 



A JEW. Messias hath not come. 

FIRST NAZARENE. He hath come, and everywhere He work- 

eth miracles! 
HERODiAS. Ho! ho! miracles! I do not believe in miracles. 

I have seen too many. {To the Page) My fan. 
FIRST NAZARENE. This Man worketh true miracles. Thus, 

at a marriage which took place in a little town of Galilee, 

a town of some importance. He changed water into wine. 

Certain persons who were present related it to me. Also 

He healed two lepers that were seated before the Gate of 

Capernaum simply by touching them. 
SECOND NAZARENE. Nay; it was two blind men that He 

healed at Capernaum. 
FIRST NAZARENE. Nay; they were lepers. But He hath 

healed blind people also, and He was seen on a mountain 

talking with angels. 
A SADDUCEE. Angels do not exist. 
A PHARISEE. Angels exist, but I do not believe that this 

Man has talked with them. 
FIRST NAZARENE. He was secu by a great multitude of 

people talking with angels. 
HERODIAS. How thcsc men weary me ! They are ridiculous ! 

They are altogether ridiculous ! {To the Page) Well! my 

fan? {The Page gives her the fan) You have a dreamer's 

look. You must not dream. It is only sick people who 

dream. 

[She strikes the Page with her fan. 
SECOND NAZARENE. There is also the miracle of the daughter 

of Jairus. 
FIRST NAZARENE. Yea, that is true. No man can gainsay it. 
HERODIAS. Those men are mad. They have looked too 

long on the moon. Command them to be silent. 
HEROD. What is this miracle of the daughter of Jairus? 
FIRST NAZARENE. The daughter of Jairus was dead. This 

Man raised her from the dead. 
HEROD. How ! He raises people from the dead? 
FIRST NAZARENE. Yea, sirc; He raiseth the dead. 



92 SALOME 



HEROD. I do not wish Him to do that. I forbid Him to do 
that. I suffer no man to raise the dead. This Man must 
be found and told that I forbid Him to raise the dead. 
Where is this Man at present? 

SECOND NAZARENE. He is in every place, my lord, but it is 
hard to find Him. 

FIRST NAZARENE. It is Said that He is now in Samaria. 

A JEW. It is easy to see that this is not Messias, if He is in 
Samaria. It is not to the Samaritans that Messias shall 
come. The Samaritans are accursed. They bring no of- 
ferings to the Temple. 

SECOND NAZARENE. He left Samaria a few days since. I 
think that at the present moment He is in the neigh- 
bourhood of Jerusalem. 

FIRST NAZARENE. No; He is not there. I have just come 
from Jerusalem. For two months they have had no tidings 
of Him. 

HEROD. No matter! But let them find Him, and tell Him, 
thus saith Herod the King, ' I will not suffer Thee to raise 
the dead.' To change water into wine, to heal the lepers 
and the blind. He may do these things if He will. I say 
nothing against these things. In truth I hold it a kindly 
deed to heal a leper. But no man shall raise the dead. It 
would be terrible if the dead came back. 

THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. Ah ! The wauton one ! The harlot ! 
Ah ! the daughter of Babylon with her golden eyes and her 
gilded eyelids! Thus saith the Lord God, Let there come 
up against her a multitude of men. Let the people take 
stones and stone her. 

HERODiAS. Command him to be silent! 

THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. Let the Captains of the hosts 
pierce her with their swords, let them crush her beneath 
their shields. 

HERODIAS. Nay, but it is infamous. 

THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. It is thus that I wiU wipe out all 
wickedness from the earth, and that all women shall learn 
not to imitate her abominations. 



J 



SALOME 93 



HERODiAS. You hear what he says against me? You suffer 
him to revile her who is your wife? 

HEROD. He did not speak your name. 

HERODIAS. What does that matter? You know well that it 
is I whom he seeks to revile. And I am your wife, am I 
not? 

HEROD. Of a truth, dear and noble Herodias, you are 
my wife, and before that you were the wife of my 
brother. 

HERODIAS. It was thou didst snatch me from his arms. 

HEROD. Of a truth I was stronger than he was. But let 
us not talk of that matter. I do not desire to talk of it. 
It is the cause of the terrible words that the prophet has 
spoken. Peradventure on account of it a misfortune will 
come. Let us not speak of this matter. Noble Herodias, 
we are not mindful of our guests. Fill thou my cup, my 
well-beloved. Ho! fill with wine the great goblets of 
silver, and the great goblets of glass. I will drink to 
Csesar. There are Romans here, we must drink to Csesar. 

ALL. Csesar! Csesar! 

HEROD. Do you not see your daughter, how pale she is? 

HERODIAS. What is it to you if she be pale or not? 

HEROD. Never have I seen her so pale. 

HERODIAS. You must not look at her. 

THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. In that day the sun shall become 
black like sackcloth of hair, and the moon shall become 
like blood, and the stars of the heaven shall fall upon the 
earth like unripe figs that fall from the fig-tree, and the 
kings of the earth shall be afraid. 

HERODIAS. Ah! ah! I should like to see that day of which 
he speaks, when the moon shall become like blood, and 
when the stars shall fall upon the earth like unripe figs. 
This prophet talks like a drunken man, but I cannot suffer 
the sound of his voice. I hate his voice. Command him 
to be silent. 

HEROD. I will not. I cannot understand what it is that he 
saith, but it may be an omen. 



94 SALOME 

HERODiAS. I do not believc in omens. He speaks like a 

drunken man. 
HEROD. It may be he is drunk with the wine of God. 
HERODIAS. What wine is that, the wine of God? From what 

vineyards is it gathered? In what winepress may one 

find it? 
HEROD (Jrom this point he looks all the while at Salome). Tigel- 

linus, when you were at Rome of late, did the Emperor 

speak with you on the subject of ? 

TiGELLiNUS. On what subject, my lord? 

HEROD. On what subject? Ah! I asked you a question, 

did I not? I have forgotten what I would have asked you, 
HERODIAS. You are looking again at my daughter. You 

must not look at her. I have already said so. 
HEROD. You say nothing else. 
HERODIAS. I say it again. 
HEROD. And that restoration of the Temple about which 

they have talked so much, will anything be done? They 

say that the veil of the Sanctuary has disappeared, do 

they not? 
HERODIAS. It was thyself didst steal it. Thou speakest at 

random and without wit. I will not stay here. Let us go 

within. 
HEROD. Dance for me, Salome. 
HERODIAS. I will not havc her dance. 
SALOME. I have no desire to dance, Tetrarch. 
HEROD. Salome, daughter of Herodias, dance for me. 
HERODIAS. Peace. Let her alone. 
HEROD. I command thee to dance, Salome. 
SALOME. I will not dance, Tetrarch. 
HERODIAS (laughing). You see how she obeys you. 
HEROD. What is it to me whether she dance or not? It is 

nought to me. To-night I am happy. I am exceeding 

happy. Never have I been so happy. 
FIRST SOLDIER. The Tctrarch has a sombre look. Has he 

not a sombre look? 
SECOND SOLDIER. Ycs, he has a sombre look. 



SALOME 95 



HEROD. Wherefore should I not be happy? Csesar, who is 
lord of the world, Caesar, who is lord of all things, loves 
me well. He has just sent me most precious gifts. Also, 
he has promised me to summon to Rome the King of 
Cappadocia, who is mine enemy. It may be that at Rome 
he will crucify him, for he is able to do all things that he 
has a mind to do. Verily, Caesar is lord. Therefore I do 
well to be happy. I am very happy; never have I been 
so happy. There is nothing in the world that can mar my 
happiness. 

THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. He shall be seated on his throne. 
He shall be clothed in scarlet and purple. In his hand he 
shall bear a golden cup full of his blasphemies. And the 
angel of the Lord shall smite him. He shall be eaten of 
worms. 

HERODiAs. You hear what he says about you. He says 
that you shall be eaten of worms. 

HEROD. It is not of me that he speaks. He speaks never 
against me. It is of the King of Cappadocia that he 
speaks; the King of Cappadocia, who is mine enemy. It 
is he who shall be eaten of worms. It is not I. Never 
has he spoken word against me, this prophet, save that I 
sinned in taking to wife the wife of my brother. It may be 
he is right. For, of truth, you are sterile. 

HERODIAS. I am sterile, I.'' You say that, you that are 
ever looking at my daughter, you that would have her 
dance for your pleasure.'* You speak as a fool. I have 
borne a child. You have gotten no child, no, not on one 
of your slaves. It is you who are sterile, not I. 

HEROD. Peace, woman! I say that you are sterile. You 
have borne me no child, and the prophet says that our 
marriage is not a true marriage. He says that it is a 
marriage of incest, a marriage that will bring evils. I 
fear he is right; I am sure that he is right. But it is not 
the hour to speak of these things. I would be happy at 
this moment. Of a truth, I am happy. There is nothing 
I lack. 



96 SALOME 



HERODiAS. I am glad you are of so fair a humour to-night. 
It is not your custom. But it is late. Let us go within. 
Do not forget that we hunt at sunrise. All honours must 
be shown to Caesar's ambassadors, must they not? 

SECOND SOLDIER. The Tctrarch has a sombre look. 

FIRST SOLDIER. Yes, he has a sombre look. 

HEROD. Salome, Salome, dance for me. I pray thee dance 
for me. I am sad to-night. Yes, I am passing sad to- 
night. When I came hither I slipped in blood, which is 
an ill omen; also I heard in the air a beating of wings, a 
beating of giant wings. I cannot tell what that may mean. 
I am sad to-night. Therefore dance for me. Dance for 
me, Salome, I beseech thee. If thou dancest for me thou 
mayest ask of me what thou wilt, and I will give it thee. 
Yes, dance for me, Salome, and whatsoever thou shalt ask 
of me I will give it thee, even unto the half of my kingdom. 

SALOME (rising). Will you indeed give me whatsoever I 
shall ask of you, Tetrarch? 

HERODIAS. Do not daucc, my daughter. 

HEROD. Whatsoever thou shalt ask of me, even unto the 
half of my kingdom. 

SALOME. You swear it, Tetrarch? 

HEROD, I swear it, Salome. 

HERODIAS. Do not daucc, my daughter. 

SALOME. By what will you swear this thing, Tetrarch? 

HEROD. By my life, by my crown, by my gods. Whatso- 
ever thou shalt desire I will give it thee, even to the half 
of my kingdom, if thou wilt but dance for me. O Salome, 
Salome, dance for me! 

SALOME. You have sworn an oath, Tetrarch. 

HEROD. I have sworn an oath. 

HERODIAS. My daughter, do not dance. 

HEROD. Even to the half of my kingdom. Thou wilt be 
pressing fair as a queen, Salome, if it please thee to ask for 
the half of my kingdom. Will she not be fair as a queen? 
Ah! it is cold here! There is an icy wind, and I hear — 
wherefore do I hear in the air this beating of wings? Ah ! 



SALOME 97 



one might fancy a huge black bird that hovers over the 
terrace. Why can I not see it, this bird? The beat of its 
wings is terrible. The breath of the wind of its wings is 
terrible. It is a chill wind. Nay, but it is not cold, it is 
hot. I am choking. Pour water on my hands. Give me 
snow to eat. Loosen my mantle. Quick ! quick ! loosen my 
mantle. Nay, but leave it. It is my garland that hurts 
me, my garland of roses. The flowers are like fire. They 
have burned my forehead. {He tears the wreath from his 
head, and throws it on the table) Ah! I can breathe now. 
How red those petals are! They are like stains of blood on 
the cloth. That does not matter. It is not wise to find 
symbols in everything that one sees. It makes life too 
full of terrors. It were better to say that stains of blood 
are as lovely as rose-petals. It were better far to say 

that But we will not speak of this. Now I am happy. 

I am passing happy. Have I not the right to be happy.? 
Your daughter is going to dance for me. Wilt thou not 
dance for me, Salome? Thou hast promised to dance for 
me. 

HERODiAS. I will not havc her dance. 

SALOME. I will dance for you, Tetrarch. 

HEROD. You hear what your daughter says. She is going 
to dance for me. Thou doest well to dance for me, Salome. 
And when thou hast danced for me, forget not to ask of 
me whatsoever thou hast a mind to ask. Whatsoever thou 
shalt desire I will give it thee, even to the half of my king- 
dom. I have sworn it, have I not? 

SALOME. Thou hast sworn it, Tetrarch. 

HEROD. And I have never failed of my word. I am not 
of those who break their oaths. I know not how to lie. 
I am the slave of my word, and my word is the word of 
a king. The King of Cappadocia had ever a lying tongue, 
but he is no true king. He is a coward. Also he owes me 
money that he will not repay. He has even insulted my 
ambassadors. He has spoken words that were wounding. 
But Csesar will crucify him when he comes to Rome. I 



98 SALOME 



know that Csesar will crucify him. And if he crucify him 
not, yet will he die, being eaten of worms. The prophet 
has prophesied it. Well! Wherefore dost thou tarry, 
Salome? 

SALOME. I am waiting until my slaves bring perfumes to 
me and the seven veils, and take from off my feet my san- 
dals. 

[Slaves bring perfumes and the seven veils, and take off the 
sandals of Salome. 

HEROD. All, thou art to dance with naked feet! 'Tis well! 
'Tiswell! Thy little feet will be like white doves. They 
will be little white flowers that dance upon the trees. No, 
no, she is going to dance on blood! There is blood spilt 
on the ground. She must not dance on blood. It were 
an evil omen. 

HERODiAS. What is it to thee if she dance on blood? Thou 
hast waded deep enough in it. 

HEROD. What is it to me? Ah! look at the moon! She has 
become red. She has become red as blood. Ah! the 
prophet prophesied truly. He prophesied that the moon 
would become as blood. Did he not prophesy it? All of 
ye heard him prophesying it. And now the moon has be- 
come as blood. Do ye not see it? 

HERODIAS. Oh, yes, I see it well, and the stars are falling 
like unripe figs, are they not? And the sun is becoming 
black like sackcloth of hair, and the kings of the earth are 
afraid. That, at least, one can see. The prophet is jus- 
tijBed of his words in that at least, for truly the kings of 
the earth are afraid. Let us go within. You are sick. 
They will say at Rome that you are mad. Let us go 
within, I tell you. 

THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. Who is this who cometh from 
Edom, who is this who cometh from Bozra, whose raiment 
is dyed with purple, who shineth in the beauty of his gar- 
ments, who walketh mighty in his greatness? Wherefore 
is thy raiment stained with scarlet? 

HERODIAS. Let us go within. The voice of that man mad- 



SALOME 99 



dens me. I will not have my daughter dance while he is 
continually crying out. I will not have her dance while 
you look at her in this fashion. In a word, I will not have 
her dance. 

HEROD. Do not rise, my wife, my queen; it will avail thee 
nothing. I will not go within till she hath danced. Dance, 
Salome, dance for me. 

HERODiAS. Do not dancc, my daughter. 

SALOME, I am ready, Tetrarch. 

[Salome dances the dance of the seven veils. 

HEROD. Ah! wonderful! wonderful! You see that she has 
danced for me, your daughter. Come near, Salome, come 
near, that I may give thee thy fee. Ah ! I pay a royal price 
to those who dance for my pleasure. I will pay thee 
royally. I will give thee whatsoever thy soul desireth. 
What wouldst thou have? Speak. 

SALOME {kneeling). I would that they presently bring me 
in a silver charger 

HEROD {laughing). In a silver charger? Surely yes, in a 
silver charger. She is charming, is she not? What is it 
that thou wouldst have in a silver charger, O sweet and 
fair Salome, thou that art fairer than all the daughters 
of Judaea? What wouldst thou have them bring thee in a 
silver charger? Tell me. Whatsoever it may be, thou 
shalt receive it. My treasures belong to thee. What is 
that thou wouldst have, Salome? 

SALOME {rising). The head of lokanaan. 

HERODIAS. Ah! that is well said, my daughter. 

HEROD. No, no! 

HERODIAS. That is well said, my daughter. 

HEROD. No, no, Salome. It is not that thou desirest. Do 
not listen to thy mother's voice. She is ever giving evil 
counsel. Do not heed her. 

SALOME. It is not my mother's voice that I heed. It is 
for mine own pleasure that I ask the head of lokanaan in 
a silver charger. You have sworn an oath, Herod. For- 
get not that you have sworn an oath. 



100 SALOME 



HEROD. I know it. I have sworn an oath by my gods. I 
know it well. But I pray thee, Salome, ask of me some- 
thing else. Ask of me the half of my kingdom, and I will 
give it thee. But ask not of me what thy lips have asked. 

SALOME. I ask of you the head of lokanaan. 

HEROD. No, no; I will not give it thee. 

SALOME. You have sworn an oath, Herod. 

HERODiAS. Yes, you have sworn an oath. Everybody 
heard you. You swore it before everybody. 

HEROD. Peace, woman! It is not to you I speak. 

HERODIAS. My daughter has done well to ask the head of 
lokanaan. He has covered me with insults. He has said 
unspeakable things against me. One can see that she 
loves her mother well. Do not yield, my daughter. He 
has sworn an oath; he has sworn an oath. 

HEROD. Peace! Speak not to me! Salome, I pray thee be 
not stubborn. I have ever been kind toward thee. I 
have ever loved thee. It may be that I have loved thee 
too much. Therefore ask not this thing of me. This is a 
terrible thing, an awful thing to ask of me. Surely, I 
think thou art jesting. The head of a man that is cut 
from his body is ill to look upon, is it not.? It is not meet 
that the eyes of a virgin should look upon such a thing. 
What pleasure couldst thou have in it? There is no 
pleasure that thou couldst have in it. No, no; it is not 
that thou desirest. Hearken to me. I have an emerald, 
a great emerald and round, that the minion of Caesar has 
sent unto me. When thou lookest through this emerald 
thou canst see that which passeth afar off, Csesar him- 
self carries such an emerald when he goes to the circus. 
But my emerald is the larger. I know well that it is the 
larger. It is the largest emerald in the whole world. 
Thou wilt take that, wilt thou not.? Ask it of me and I 
will give it thee. 

SALOME. I demand the head of lokanaan. 

HEROD. Thou art not listening. Thou art not listening. 
Suffer me to speak, Salome. 



SALOME 101 



SALOME. The head of lokanaan! 

HEROD. No, no, thou wouldst not have that. Thou sayest 
that but to trouble me, because that I have looked at thee 
and ceased not this night. It is true, I have looked at 
thee and ceased not this night. Thy beauty has troubled 
me. Thy beauty has grievously troubled me, and I have 
looked at thee overmuch. Nay, but I will look at thee 
no more. One should not look at anything. Neither at 
things, nor at people should one look. Only in mirrors is 
it well to look, for mirrors do but show us masks. Oh! 
oh! bring wine! I thirst! Salome, Salome, let us be as 

friends. Bethink thee Ah! what would I say.? What 

was't? Ah! I remember it! Salome, — nay, but come 
nearer to me; I fear thou wilt not hear my words, — Salome, 
thou knowest my white peacocks, my beautiful white pea- 
cocks, that walk in the garden between the myrtles and the 
tall cypress-trees. Their beaks are gilded with gold, and 
the grains that they eat are smeared with gold, and their 
feet are stained with purple. When they cry out the rain 
comes, and the moon shows herself in the heavens when 
they spread their tails. Two by two, they walk between 
the cypress trees and the black myrtles, and each has a 
slave to tend it. Sometimes they fly across the trees, and 
anon they couch in the grass, and round the pools of the 
water. There are not in all the world birds so wonderful. 
I know that Caesar himself has no birds so fair as my birds. 
I will give thee fifty of my peacocks. They will follow 
thee whithersoever thou goest, and in the midst of them 
thou wilt be like unto the moon in the midst of a great 
white cloud. I will give them to thee, all. I have but a 
hundred, and in the whole world there is no king who has 
peacocks like unto my peacocks. But I will give them 
all to thee. Only thou must loose me from my oath, 
and must not ask of me that which thy lips have asked 
of me. 
[He empties the cup of wine. 

SALOME. Give me the head of lokanaan. 



102 SALOME 



HERODiAS. Well said, my daughter! As for you, you are 
ridiculous with your peacocks. 

HEROD. Peace! you are always crying out. You cry out 
like a beast of prey. You must not cry in such fashion. 
Your voice wearies me. Peace, I tell you ! Salome, think 
on what thou art doing. It may be that this man comes 
from God. He is a holy man. The finger of God has 
touched him. God has put terrible words into his mouth. 
In the palace, as in the desert, God is ever with him! It 
may be that He is, at least. One cannot tell, but it is pos- 
sible that God is with him and for him. If he die also, 
peradventure some evil may befall me. Verily, he has 
said that evil will befall some one on the day whereon he 
dies. On whom should it fall if it fall not on me? Re- 
member, I slipped in blood when I came hither. Also 
did I not hear the beating of wings in the air, a beating 
of vast wings? These are ill omens. And there were 
other things. I am sure there were other things, though 
I saw them not. Thou wouldst not that some evil should 
befall me, Salome? Listen to me again. 

SALOME. Give me the head of lokanaan! 

HEROD. Ah! thou art not listening to me. Be calm. As 
for me, am I not calm? I am altogether calm. Listen. 
I have jewels hidden in this place — jewels that thy mother 
even has never seen; jewels that are marvelous to look at. 
I have a collar of pearls, set in four rows. They are like 
unto moons chained with rays of silver. They are even 
as half a hundred moons caught in a golden net. On the 
ivory breast of a queen they have rested. Thou shalt be 
as fair as a queen when thou wearest them. I have ame- 
thysts of two kinds; one that is black like wine, and one 
that is red like wine that one has colored with water. I 
have topazes yellow as are the eyes of tigers, and topazes 
that are pink as the eyes of a wood-pigeon, and green 
topazes that are as the eyes of cats. I have opals that 
burn always, with a flame that is cold as ice, opals that 
make sad men's minds, and are afraid of the shadows. I 



SALOME 103 



have onyxes like the eyeballs of a dead woman. I have 
moonstones that change when the moon changes, and are 
wan when they see the sun. I have sapphires big like 
eggs, and as blue as blue flowers. The sea wanders within 
them, and the moon comes never to trouble the blue of 
their waves. I have chrysolites and beryls, and chryso- 
prases and rubies; I have sardonyx and hyacinth stones, 
and stones of chalcedony, and I will give them all unto 
thee, all, and other things will I add to them. The King 
of the Indies has but even now sent me four fans fashioned 
from the feathers of parrots, and the King of Numidia a 
garment of ostrich feathers. I have a crystal, into which it 
is not lawful for a woman to look, nor may young men 
behold it until they have been beaten with rods. In a 
coflfer of nacre I have three wondrous turquoises. He who 
wears them on his forehead can imagine things which are 
not, and he who carries them in his hand can turn the 
fruitful woman into a woman that is barren. These are 
great treasures. They are treasures above all price. But 
this is not all. In an ebony coffer I have two cups of amber 
that are like apples of pure gold. If an enemy pour poison 
into these cups they become like apples of silver. In a 
coffer incrusted with amber I have sandals incrusted with 
glass. I have mantles that have been brought from the 
land of the Seres, and bracelets decked about with car- 
buncles and with jade that come from the city of Eu- 
phrates. What desirest thou more than this, Salome? 
Tell me the thing that thou desirest, and I will give it 
thee. All that thou askest I will give thee, save one thing 
only. I will give thee all that is mine, save only the life 
of one man. I will give thee the mantle of the high priest. 
I will give thee the veil of the sanctuary. 

THE JEWS. Oh ! oh ! ' 

SALOME. Give me the head of lokanaan ! 

HEROD {sinking back in his seat). Let her be given what she 
asks! Of a truth she is her mother's child! (The first 
soldier approaches. Herodias draws from the hand of the 



104 SALOME 

Tetrarch the ring of death, and gives it to the soldier, who 
straightway bears it to the executioner. The executioner looks 
scared) Who has taken my ring? There was a ring on 
my right hand. Who has drunk my wine? There was 
wine in my cup. It was full of wine. Some one has drunk 
it! Oh! surely some evil will befall some one. (The exe- 
cutioner goes down into the cistern) Ah ! wherefore did I give 
my oath.f* Hereafter let no king swear an oath. If he keep 
it not, it is terrible, and if he keep it, it is terrible also. 

HERODiAS. My daughter has done well. 

HEROD. I am sure that some misfortune will happen. 

SALOME (she leans over the cistern and listens). There is no 
sound. I hear nothing. Why does he not cry out, this 
man? Ah! if any man sought to kill me, I would cry out, 
I would struggle, I would not suffer. Strike, strike, Naa- 
man, strike, I tell you! No, I hear nothing. There is a 
silence, a terrible silence. Ah! something has fallen upon 
the ground. I heard something fall. It was the sword 
of the executioner. He is afraid, this slave. He has 
dropped his sword. He dares not kill him. He is a cow- 
ard, this slave! Let soldiers be sent. (She sees the page of 
Herodias and addresses him) Come hither. Thou wert 
the friend of him who is dead, wert thou not? Well, I 
tell thee, there are not dead men enough. Go to the sol- 
diers and bid them go down and bring me the thing I ask, 
the thing the Tetrarch has promised me, the thing that is 
mine. (The page recoils. She turns to the soldiers) Hither, 
ye soldiers. Get ye down into this cistern and bring me 
the head of this man. Tetrarch, Tetrarch, command your 
soldiers that they bring me the head of lokanaan. (A 
huge black arm, the arm of the executioner, comes forth from 
the cistern, bearing on a silver shield the head of lokanaan. 
Salome seizes it. Herod hides his face with his cloak. Hero- 
dias smiles and fans herself. The Nazarenes fall on their 
knees and begin to praij) Ah ! thou wouldst not suffer me 
to kiss thy mouth, lokanaan. Well! I will kiss it now. 
I will bite it with my teeth as one bites a ripe fruit. Yes, 



SALOME 105 

I will kiss thy mouth, lokanaan. I said it; did I not say 
it? I said it. Ah! I will kiss it now. But wherefore 
dost thou not look at me, lokanaan.'' Thine eyes that 
were so terrible, so full of rage and scorn, are shut now. 
Wherefore are they shut? Open thine eyes! Lift up 
thine eyelids, lokanaan! Wherefore dost thou not look 
at me? Art thou afraid of me, lokanaan, that thou wilt 
not look at me? And thy tongue, that was like a red 
snake darting poison, it moves no more, it speaks no words, 
lokanaan, that scarlet viper that spat its venom upon me. 
It is strange, is it not? How is it that the red viper stirs 
no longer? Thou wouldst have none of me, lokanaan. 
Thou rejectedest me. Thou didst speak evil words against 
me. Thou didst bear thyself toward me as to a harlot, 
as to a woman that is a wanton, to me, Salome, daugl^ter 
of Herodias, Princess of Judaea! Well, I still live, but 
thou art dead, and thy head belongs to me. I can do with 
it what I will. I can throw it to the dogs and to the birds 
of the air. That which the dogs leave, the birds of the 
air shall devour. Ah, lokanaan, lokanaan, thou wert the 
man that I loved alone among men! All other men were 
hateful to me. But thou wert beautiful! Thy body was 
a column of ivory set upon feet of silver. It was a garden 
full of doves and lilies of silver. It was a tower of silver 
decked with shields of ivory. There was nothing in the 
world so white as thy body. There was nothing in the 
world so black as thy hair. In the whole world there was 
nothing so red as thy mouth. Thy voice was a censer 
that scattered strange perfumes, and when I looked on 
thee I heard a strange music. Ah! wherefore didst thou 
not look at me, lokanaan? With the cloak of thine 
hands, and with the cloak of thy blasphemies thou didst 
hide thy face. Thou didst put upon thine eyes the cov- 
ering of him who would see God. Well, thou hast seen 
thy God, lokanaan, but me, me, thou didst never see. If 
thou hadst seen me thou hadst loved me. I saw thee, and 
I loved thee. Oh, how I loved thee! I love thee yet, 



106 SALOME 

lokanaan. I love only thee. I am athirst f or thy beauty ; 
I am hungry for thy body; and neither wine nor apples 
can appease my desire. What shall I do now, lokanaan? 
Neither the floods nor the great waters can quench my 
passion. I was a princess, and thou didst scorn me. I 
was a virgin, and thou didst take my virginity from me. 
I was chaste, and thou didst fill my veins with fire. Ah! 
ah! wherefore didst thou not look at me? If thou hadst 
looked at me thou hadst loved me. Well I know that 
thou wouldst have loved me, and the mystery of Love is 
greater than the mystery of Death. 

HEROD. She is monstrous, thy daughter; I tell thee she is 
monstrous. In truth, what she has done is a great crime. 
I am sure that it is a crime against some unknown God. 

HERODiAS. I am well pleased with my daughter. She has 
done well. And I would stay here now. 

HEROD (rising). Ah! There speaks my brother's wife! 
Come! I will not stay in this place. Come, I tell thee. 
Surely some terrible thing will befall. Manasseh, Issa- 
char, Ozias, put out the torches. I will not look at things, 
I will not suffer things to look at me. Put out the torches ! 
Hide the moon! Hide the stars! Let us hide ourselves 
in our palace, Herodias. I begin to be afraid. 
[The slaves put out the torches. The stars disappear. A great 
cloud crosses the moon and conceals it completely. The stage 
becomes quite dark. The Tetrarch begins to climb the staircase. 

THE VOICE OF SALOME. Ah! I have kissed thy mouth, lo- 
kanaan, I have kissed thy mouth. There was a bitter 
taste on thy lips. Was it the taste of blood.? Nay; but 
perchance it was the taste of love. They say that love 
hath a bitter taste. But what matter.'* what matter.? I 
have kissed thy mouth, lokanaan, I have kissed thy mouth. 
[A ray of moonlight falls on Salome and illumines her. 

HEROD (turning round and seeing Salome). Kill that woman! 
[The soldiers rush forward and crush beneath their shields 
Salome, daughter of Herodias, Princess of Judaea. 

CURTAIN. 



THE MAN IN THE STALLS 

ALFRED SUTRO 

Alfred Sutro was born in London, 1863. He was edu- 
cated in his native city and in Brussels. Since 1896, when he 
made his first theatrical venture, he has produced a large 
number of successful plays, including serious dramas 
and light sentimental comedies. His first play — "The 
Chili Widow", written in collaboration with the actor 
Arthur Bourchier — is an adaptation from the French. "The 
Walls of Jericho", "Mollentrave on Women", "The Fas- 
cinating Mr. Vanderveldt", and "John Glayde's Honour" 
are among the most successful of the earlier plays. Of late, 
Mr. Sutro has turned to satirical comedy, the best examples 
of which are "The Perplexed Husband" and "The Clever 
Ones." 

Some of Mr. Sutro's most characteristic work is found 
in his numerous one-act plays, many of which were written 
as curtain raisers. These plays are well-knit technically 
and are particularly well adapted to the purpose for which 
they were intended. Mr. Sutro is essentially a man of the 
theater, in no sense an innovator; he is content to write 
about everyday people in a traditional form. 

PLAYS 

Plays marked with * are in one act only. 
The Cave of Illusion (1900) *The Gutter of Time (1902) 
*Ella's Apology (1902) *A Maker of Men (1902) 

*A Game of Chess (1902) *Mr. Steinmann's Corner 

*The Correct Thing (1902) (1902) 

♦Carrots (1902) *The Salt of Life (1902) 



108 



THE MAN IN THE STALLS 



♦The Open Door (1903) 

Arethusa (1903) 

A Lonely Life (1903) 

The Walls of Jericho (1904) 
*A Marriage Has Been Ar- 
ranged (1904) 

Mollentrave on Women 
(1905) 

The Perfect Lover (1905) 
(In England, The Price of 
Money, 1906) 

The Fascinating Mr. Van- 
derveldt (1906) 

JohnGlayde's Honour (1907) 

The Barrier (1907) 

The Builder of Bridges (1908) 



*The Man on the Kerb(1908) 

Making a Gentleman (1909) 
*The Man in the Stalls (1911) 

The Perplexed Husband 
(1911) 

The Fire-Screen (1912) 
*The Bracelet (1912) 

The Clever Ones (1914) 

The Two Virtues (1914) 

Freedom (1915) 
*The Great Redding Street 

Burglary (1916) 
*The Marriage . . . Will 

Not Take Place (1917) 
*TheTrap (1918) 

The Choice (1919) 



"The Cave of Illusion" is published by Grant Richards, 
London; "The Fascinating Mr. Vanderveldt", "The Bar- 
rier", "John Glayde's Honour", "Mollentrave on Women", 
"The Perfect Lover" (as "The Price of Money"), "The 
Walls of Jericho", "Carrots", "The Correct Thing", "Ella's 
Apology", "A Game of Chess", "The Marriage . . . Will 
Not Take Place", "The Gutter of Time", "A Maker of 
Men", "A Marriage Has Been Arranged", "The Open 
Door", "Mr. Steinmann's Corner", "The Salt of Life", 
"The Builder of Bridges", "The Fire-Screen", "The Per- 
plexed Husband", "The Two Virtues", "The Bracelet", 
"The Man on the Kerb", are published by Samuel French, 
New York; "The Man in the Stalls", "A Marriage Has 
Been Arranged", "The Man on the Kerb", "The Open Door" 
and "The Bracelet" are published in one volume as "Five 
Little Plays" by Brentano's, New York; "Freedom" by the 
same. 



THE MAN IN THE STALLS 

A PLAY IN ONE ACT 



BY ALFRED SUTRO 



"The Man in the Stalls" was first produced at London in 
1911. 

Characters 

Hector Allen 
Elizabeth Allen (Betty) 
Walter Cozens 



COPTBIGHT, 1911, BT SAUDEL FhENCH, LTD. 

Reprinted from "Five Little Playa", published by Brentano, by permission of 
Samuel French. 

This play has been copyrighted in America by the author's agents, Messrs. Samuel 
French, Ltd., 26 Southampton Street, Strand, to whom all applications, both in England 
and America, should be addressed. 



THE MAN IN THE STALLS 

The sitting-room of a little fiat in Shaftesbury Avenue. At 
hack is a door leading to the dining-room — it is open, and the 
dinner-table is in full view of the audience. To the extreme 
right is another door, leading to the hall. 

The place is pleasantly and prettily, though quite inexpen- 
sively, furnished. To the left, at angles with the distempered 
wall, is a baby-grand piano; the fireplace, in which afire is burn- 
ing merrily, is on the same side, full centre. To the right of the 
door leading to the dining-room is a small side-table, on which 
there is a tray with decanter and glasses; in front of this, a card 
table, open, with two packs of cards on it, and chairs on each 
side. Another table, a round one, is in the centre of the room — 
to right and to left of it are comfortable armchairs. Against the 
right wall is a long sofa; above it hang a few good water-colours 
and engravings; on the piano and the table there are fiowers. A 
general appearance of refinement and comfort pervades the room; 
no luxury, but evidence everywhere of good taste, and the count- 
less feminine touches that make a room homelike and pleasant. 

When the curtain rises. Hector Allen, a youngish man of 
forty, with an attractive intellectual face, is seen standing by the 
dining-table in the inner room, draining his liqueur -glass, with 
Walter Cozens to the right of him, lighting a cigarette. Walter 
is a few years younger than his friend, moderately good-looking, 
with fine, curly brown hair and a splendid silky moustache. His 
morning-clothes are conspicuously well-cut — he is evidently 
something of a dandy; Hector wears a rather shabby dress-suit, 
his boots are aiokward, and his tie ready-made. Betty, a hand- 
some woman of thirty, wearing a very pretty tea-gown, is talking 
to the maid at the back of the dining room. 

Hector puts down his glass and comes into the sitting room, 
followed by Walter. Hector is puffing at a short, stumpy little 
black cigar. 



112 THE MAN IN THE STALLS 



HECTOR (talking as he comes through, continuing the conversa- 
f{Q^ — Jig loalks to the fireplace, and stands with his back to it). 
I tell you, if I'd known what it meant, I'd never have taken 
the job! Sounded so fine, to be reader of plays for the 
Duke's Theatre — adviser to the great Mr. Honeyswill! 
And then — when the old man said I was to go to all the 
first nights — why, I just chortled! "It's the first nights 
that show you the grip of the thing — that teach you 
most" — he said. Teach you! As though there were any- 
thing to learn! Oh my stars! I tell you, it's a dog's life! 

WALTER (sitting to left of the round table). I'd change places 
with you, sonny. 

HECTOR. You would, eh? That's what they all say! Four 
new plays this week, my lad — one yesterday, one to-day — 
another to-morrow, and the night after! All day long I'm 
reading plays — and I spend my nights seeing 'em! D'you 
know, I read about two thousand a year? Divide two thou- 
sand by three hundred and sixty-five. A dog's life — that's 
what it is! 

WALTER. Better than being a stockbroker's clerk — you be- 
lieve me! 

HECTOR. Is it? I wish you could have a turn at it, my 
bonny boy! Your hair'd go grey, like mine! And look 
here — what are the plays to-day? They're either so 
chock-full of intellect that they send you to sleep — or they 
reek of sentiment till you yearn for the smell of a cabbage! 

WALTER. Well, you've the change, at any rate. 

HECTOR (snorting). Change? By Jove, give me a Punch 
and Judy show on the sands — or performing dogs! Plays 
— I'm sick of 'em ! And look here — the one I'm oflf to to- 
night. It's adapted from the French — well, we know 
what that means. Husband, wife and mistress. Or wife, 
husband, lover. That's what a French play means. And 
you make it English, and pass the Censor, by putting the 
lady in a mackintosh, and dumping in a curate! 

BETTY (coming in, and closing the door leading to the dining 
room). You ought to be going, Hector. 



THE MAN IN THE STALLS 113 

[She stands listening for a moment, then goes through the other 
door into the hall. 

HECTOR (disregarding her, too intent on his theme). And I tell 
you, of the two, I prefer the home-made stodge. I'm sick 
of the eternal triangle. They always do the same thing. 
Husband strikes attitudes — sometimes he strikes the lover. 
The lover never stands up to him — why shouldn't he? He 
would — in real life. {Betty comes back with his overcoat and 
muffler — she proceeds affectionately to wrap this round his 
neck, and helps him on with his coat, he talking all the time) 
He'd say, look here, you go to Hell. That's what he'd say 
— well, there you'd have a situation. But not one of the 
play writing chaps dares do it. Why not, I ask you ? There 
you'd have the truth, something big. But no — they're 
afraid — think the public won't like it. The husband's got 
to down the lover — like a big tom-cat with a mouse — or 
the author'd have to sell one of his motor-cars! That's just 
the fact of it! 

BETTY {looking at the clock on the mantelpiece). Twenty-five 
past. Hector. 

HECTOR {cheerily). All right, my lass, I'm off. By-bye, 
Walter — keep the old woman company for a bit. Good-bye, 
sweetheart. {He kisses her) Don't wait up. Now for 
the drama. Oh, the dog's life! 

[He goes. Betty waits till the hall door has hanged, then she 
sits on the elbow of Walter's chair, and rests her head on his 
shoulder. 

BETTY {softly). Poor Hector! 

WALTER {uncomfortably) . . . Yes . . . 

BETTY. Doesn't it make you feel dreadful when he talks like 
that? {She kisses him; then puts her arms round his neck, 
draws his face to her, and kisses him again, on the cheek) 
Doesn't it? 
[She nestles contentedly closer to him. 

WALTER {trying to edge away). Well, it does. Yes. 

■B'ETTY {dreamily). I — like it. 

WALTER. Betty ! 



114 THE MAN IN THE STALLS 



BETTY. Yes, I like it. I don't know why. I suppose I'm 
frightfully wicked. Or the danger perhaps — I don't know. 

WALTER {making a futile effort to get uy) . Betty 

BETTY {tightening her arms around him). Stop there, and 
don't move. How smooth your chin is — his scrapes. 
Why don't husbands shave better.? Or is it that the for- 
bidden chin is always smoother? Poor old Hector! If he 
could see us ! He hasn't a suspicion. I think it's lovely — 
really, I do. He leaves us here together, night after night, 
and imagines you're teaching me bridge. 

WALTER {restlessly). So I am. Where are the cards? 

BETTY {caressing him). Silly, have you forgotten that this 
is Tuesday — Maggie's night out ? She's gone — I told her 
she needn't wait to clear away. We've arranged master's 
supper. Master! Fow're my master, aren't you? 

WALTER. ... I don't know what I am . . . 

BETTY. Oh yes you do — you're my boy. Whom 1 love. 
There. {She kisses him again, full on the lips) That was 
a nice one, wasn't it? Poor old Hector, sitting in his stall 
— thinks he's so wonderful, knows such a lot! Yes, 
Maggie's out — with her young man, I suppose. The 
world's full of women, with their young men — and hus- 
bands sitting in the stalls . . . And I suppose that's 
how it always has been, and always will be. 

WALTER {shifting uneasily). Don't, Betty — I don't like it. 
I mean, he has such confidence in us. 

BETTY. Of course he has. And quite rightly. Aren't you 
his oldest friend? 

WALTER {with something of a groan). I've known him since 
I was seven. 

BETTY. The first man he introduced me to — his best man 
at the wedding — do you remember coming to see us during 
the honeymoon? I liked you then. 

WALTER {really shocked). Betty! 

BETTY. I did. You had a way of squeezing my hand. 
. . . And then when we came back here. You know 
it didn't take me long to discover 



THE MAN IN THE STALLS 115 

WALTER (protesting). I scarcely saw you the first two or 
three years! 

BETTY. No — you were afraid. Oh I thought you so silly! 
(He suddenly contrives to release himself — gets up, and moves 
to the card-table) Why, what's the matter? 

WALTER (at the table, with his back to her). I hate hearing you 
talk like this. 

BETTY. Silly boy! (She rises, and goes to him; he has taken 
a cigarette out of the box on the table, and stands, there with 
his head bent, tapping the cigarette against his hand) Women 
only talk "like this," as you call it, to their lovers. They 
talk "like that" to their husbands — and that's why the 
husbands never know. That's why the husbands are 
always sitting in the stalls, looking on. (She puts her arms 
round him again) Looking and not seeing. 
[She approaches her lips to his — he almost fretfully unclasps 
her arms. 

WALTER. Betty — I want to say a — serious word . . . 

BETTY (looking fondly at him). Well, isn't what /'m saying 
serious.'' 

WALTER. I'm thirty-eight. 

BETTY. Yes. I'm only thirty. But I'm not complaining. 

WALTER. Has it ever occurred to you 

[He stops. 

BETTY. What.f* 

[Walter looks at her — tries to speak, but cannot — then he 
breaks away, goes across the room to the fireplace and stands 
for a moment looking into the fire. She has remained where 
she was, her eyes following him wonderingly. Suddenly he 
stamps his foot violently. 

WALTER. Damn it! DAMN it! 

BETTY (moving towards him in alarm). What's the matter? 

WALTER (vyith a swift turn towards her). I'm going to get 
married. 

BETTY (stonily, stopping by the round table). You . . . 

WALTER (savagely). Going to get married, yes. Married, 
married! 



116 THE MAN IN THE STALLS 

[She stands there and doesn't stir — doesn't speak or try to 
speak; merely stands there, and looks at him, giving no sign. 
Her silence irritates him; he becomes more and more violent, 
as though to give himself courage. 

WALTER. You're wonderful, you women — you really are. 
Always contrive to make us seem brutes, or cowards! 
I've wanted to tell you this a dozen times — I've 
not had the pluck. Well, to-day I must. Must, do 
you hear that.? . . . Oh, for Heaven's sake, say 
something. 

BETTY {still staring helplessly at him). You . . . 

WALTER (feverishly). Yes, I, I! Now it's out, at least — 
it's spoken! I mean to get married, like other men — 
fooled, too, I dare say, like the others — at least I deserve 
it! But I'm tired, I tell you — tired 

BETTY. Of me? 

WALTER. Tired of the life I lead — the beastly, empty rooms 

— the meals at the Club. And I'm thirty -eight — it's now 
or never. 

BETTY (sloivly). And how about — me? 

WALTER. You? 

BETTY (passionately). Yes. Me. Me! 

WALTER. You didn't think this would last for ever? 

BETTY (nodding her head). 1 did — yes — I did. Why 
shouldn't it? 

WALTER (working himself into a fury again). Why? You 
ask that? Why? Oh yes, it's all right for you — you've 
your home and your husband — I'm there as an — annex. 
To be telephoned to, when I'm wanted, at your beck and 
call, throw over everything, come when you whistle. And 
it's not only that — I tell you it makes me feel — horrid. 
After all, he's my — friend. 

BETTY. He has been that always. You didn't feel — horrid 

— before. . . . Who is she? 

WALTER. (Shortly, as he turns back to the fire.) That 

doesn't matter. 
BETTY. Yes, it does. Who? 



THE MAN IN THE STALLS 117 

WALTER {fretfully). Oh why should we 

BETTY. I want to know — I'm entitled to know. 

WALTER {still toith his bacJc to her). Mary Gillingham. 

BETTY. Mary Gillingham! 

WALTER {firmly, swinging round to her). Yes. 

BETTY. That child, that chit of a girl! 

WALTER. She's twenty -three. 

BETTY. Whom I introduced you to — my own friend? 

WALTER {grumbling). What has that to do with it? And 
besides . . . {He suddenly changes his tone, noticing how 
calm she has become — he takes a step towards her, and stands 
by her side, at the back of the table; his voice becomes gentle 
and affectionate) But I say, really, you're taking it aw- 
fully well — pluckily. I knew you would — I knew I was 
an ass to be so — afraid. . . . And look here, we'll al- 
ways be pals — the very best of pals. I'll . . . never 
forget — never. You may be quite sure ... of that. 
I want to get married — I do — have a home of my own, and 
so forth — but you'll still be — just the one woman I really 
have loved — the one woman in my life — to whom I owe — 
everything. 

BETTY {with a mirthless laugh). Do you tell all that — to 
Mary Gillingham? 

WALTER {pettishly, as he moves away). Do I — don't be so 
absurd. 

BETTY. You tell her she is the only girl you have loved. 

WALTER {moving back to the fire, with his back to her). 
I tell her — I tell her — what does it matter what I 
tell her? And one girl or another — she or some one 
else 

BETTY. But you haven't answered my question — what's to 
become of me? 

WALTER {angrily, facing her). Become of you! Don't talk 
such nonsense. Because it is — really it is. You'll be as 
you were. And Hector's a splendid chap — and after all 
we've been frightfully wrong — treating him infernally 
badly — despicably. Oh yes, we have — and you know it. 



118 THE MAN IN THE STALLS 



Lord, there' ve been nights when I have — but never mind 

that — that's all over! In future we can look him in the 

face without feeling guilty — we can 

BETTY (quietly). You can. 

WALTER. What do you mean? 

BETTY. You can, because of this girl. Oh, I know, of course! 

You'll come here three or four times — then you'll drop off 

— you'll feel I'm not quite the woman you want your wife 
to know. 

WALTER (with genuine feeling, as he impulsively steps towards 
her). Betty, Betty, what sort of cad do you take me for? 
What sort of cad, or bounder? Haven't I told you I'd 
never forget — never? And you think you'll pass out of 
my life — that I want you to? Why, good Heaven, I'll be 
your best friend as long as I live. Friend — yes — what I 
always should have been — meant to be! And Hector. 
Why, Betty, I tell you, merely talking to-night, as I've 
done, has made me feel — different — sort of lifted — a load. 
Because I've always had it — somewhere deep down in me 

— when I've thought of — him. 
BETTY (calmly). Liar. 
WALTER (falling back). Betty! 

BETTY. Liar — yes. Why these stupid, silly lies? "Always, 
deep down in me!" Where was it, this beautiful feeling, 
when you got me to go to your rooms? 

WALTER (harshly). We needn't 

BETTY. I liked you I've said that — t liked you from the 

first. But I was straight enough. Liked you, of course 

— but I had no idea, not the slightest. . . . Thought it 
fun to play the fool, flirt just a bit. But it was you, you, 
you who 

WALTER (breaking in sulkily and stamping his foot). Never 

mind about who it was. 
BETTY (passionately). Never mind! You dare! 
WALTER (doggedly). Yes — I dare. And look here — since 

you force me to it — that's all rot — yes, it is — just rot. 

Just as you like it now, hearing Hector ask me to stop with 



THE MAN IN THE STALLS 119 

you, and kissing me the moment his back is turned — so 
you met me halfway, and more than halfway. 

BETTY. You cur! 

WALTER. That's what a woman always says, when a man 
speaks the truth. Because it is the truth — and you know 
it. "The way I squeezed your hand!" D'you think I 
meant to squeeze it — in a way ! Why, as there's a Heaven 
above me, you were as sacred to me — as my own sister ! 

BETTY {quietly, as she sits, to right of the table). What I'm 
wondering is — you see, you're the only lover I've had — 
what I wonder is, when a man breaks off, tells a woman he's 
tired of her, wants to get married — does he always abuse 
the woman 

WALTER (sulkily). I haven't 

BETTY. Degrade, and throw mud on, the love she has had 
for him? 

WALTER (with a bitter shrug). Love 

BETTY (passionately, as she springs to her feet). Love, love, yes, 
you — cruel man! Love, what else? I adore you, don't 
you know that? Live for you! would give up everything 
in the world — everything, everything ! And Walter, Wal- 
ter ! If it's only that — that you want a home — well, let's 
go off together. He'll divorce us — we can get married. 
Don't go away, and leave me here, alone with him! I 
couldn't stand it — Walter, I couldn't, I couldn't! 
[She goes eagerly to him, flings her arms round his neck, and 
a dry sob bursts from her. 

WALTER (very gently). Betty, Betty, you've been so brave 
. . . Betty, dear, the horrid things I've said were only 
to make you angry, to make you feel what a brute I was, 
how well you're rid of me. Oh, I'm not proud of myself! 
But look here, we must be sensible — we must, really. . . . 
You know, if you were divorced — if I were the co-respond- 
ent in a divorce case — I'd lose my berth, get the sack 

BETTY (clinging to him). We could go to Australia — any- 
where 

WALTER. I've no money. 



120 THE MAN IN THE STALLS 



BETTY {with a sudden movement, raising her head and leaving 
him). And Mary Gillingham has lots? 

WALTER. It's not for her money that I 

BETTY (with a start). You love her? 

WALTER (dropping his head, and speaking under his breath). 
Yes. 

BETTY (wringing her hands). You do, you do? 

WALTER. Yes, that's the truth — I do. Oh, Betty, I'm so 
frightfully sorry 

BETTY (toith a groan). Then you don't love me any more . . . 

WALTER. It's not that. But you see 

BETTY (moaning). You don't, you don't! 

[She stands there, crushed, overwhelmed, dry-eyed, broken 
moans escaping from her; suddenly she hears a key turning 
in the lock of the hall-door outside, and rushes to the card- 
table. 

BETTY. Hector! Quick, quick — the cards! 

\W alter flies to the table, and sits by her side. He seizes one 
pack and proceeds to shuffle it, she is dealing with the other. 
All this takes only a second. Hector comes in — they both 
spring up. 

BETTY. Hector! You're not ill? 

HECTOR (kissing her) . Play postponed, my child — bit of luck ! 
When I got to the theatre I found that the actor-manager's 
car had collided with a cab outside the stage-door — he was 
thrown through the window — there's a magnificent exit 
for you! and has been cut about a bit. Nothing serious. 
But the play's postponed for a week. Bit of luck! 

WALTER (sitting). Not for him. 

HECTOR. Oh he has had luck enough — tons of it! I'll get 
into a jacket — then we'll have some bridge. See what 
progress you've made, Betty! 
[He hurries out, and closes the door. 

BETTY (producing a little mirror from her bag, looking into it, 
touching her hair). We were only just in time. 

WALTER (eagerly, as he bends across the table). You're splen- 
did — you are — splendid ! 



THE MAN IN THE STALLS 121 

BETTY. Yes. All very nice and comfortable for you — isn't it? 

[She puts the mirror back into the bag. 
WALTER (coaxingly). Betty. 

BETTY. To-morrow you'll go to her — or to-night perhaps 

WALTER. To-night — ridiculous! At this hour! 

BETTY. She's a deceitful little cat. I saw her last week — 

she never told me 

WALTER. I don't think she knew. I only proposed to-day. 
BETTY (flinging herself back in her chair, and opening wide 

eyes) . You — proposed — to-day ! 

WALTER (very embarrassed). Yes — I mean 

BETTY. You — proposed — to-day ! And waited till she had 

accepted you — to tell me 

WALTER (eagerly). Don't be so silly — come, come, he'll be 

back in a minute. . . . And, believe me, I'm not worth 

making a fuss about! 
BETTY (looking contemptuously at him) . That's true. 
WALTER. Yes, it is, worse luck! I deserve all you've said 

to me. And you'll be . . . much better . . . with- 
out me. 
BETTY. Better,? 
WALTER. Yes, better, better — any way you choose to put 

it! I'm a — but never mind that! — Look here — you'd 

like me to stop? 
BETTY. He wants to play bridge. 

WALTER. Don't you think that I 

BETTY (hearing Hector coming). Sh. 

[Hector comes in — she is idly tossing the cards about. Hector 

has put on a smoking -jacket — he comes in, very jolly, fussing 

around, rubbing his hands, so glad to be home. He sits, to 

the right of Betty. 
HECTOR. Now for a game! 

[He seizes a pack, and spreads out the cards. 
BETTY (leaning back). Not sure that I want to play. 
HECTOR. Don't be disagreeable, Betty! Why? 
BETTY (listlessly, as she rises and moves across the room). No 

fun, being three. 



122 THE MAN IN THE STALLS 



HECTOR. Good practice for you. Come on. 

BETTY {leaning against the other table, and turning and facing 

them). Besides, he has something to tell you. 
HECTOR. Walter? 
BETTY. Yes. 
HECTOR {looking inquiringly at Walter). To tell me? What 

is it? 
BETTY. That he's engaged. 

HECTOR {shouting, as he leans across the table). Never! Wal- 
ter! Engaged? You? 
WALTER {nervously). Yes. 
HECTOR {noisily and affectionately). You old scoundrel! 

You rascal and villain! Engaged — and you don't come 

and tell me first ! Well I — am — damned ! 
WALTER {trying to take it gaily). I knew you'd chaff me 

about it. 
HECTOR. Chaff you! Silly old coon! why I'm glad! Of 

course we shall miss you — but marriage — it's the only 

thing, my boy — the only thing! Who is she? Do I 

know her? 
WALTER {mumbling, as he fingers the cards). A friend of 

Betty's — I fancy you've met her 

HECTOR. Who? 

BETTY. Mary GiUingham. We're the first to know — he 

only proposed to-day. 
HECTOR. GiUingham, GiUingham. . . . Oh yes, I've seen 

her, just seen her, but I don't remember. ... I say, 

not the daughter of the sealing-wax man? 

WALTER. Yes. 

HECTOR. Then there's lots of tin! Fine! Oh you artful 
old dodger! Is she pretty? 

WALTER. So-so. 

BETTY {still leaning against the table, and looking at them both). 

She's excessively pretty. She has yellow hair and blue eyes. 
HECTOR {chuckling). And she has caught old Wallie. The 

cynical old Wallie who sniffed at women ! Though perhaps 

it's the money 



THE MAN IN THE STALLS 123 

BETTY. No. He's in love with her. 

HECTOR. That's good. I'm glad. And I congratulate you 
— heartily, my boy. {He seizes TV alter' s hand, and wrings 
it) We must drink to it! (He gets u'p, goes to the side- 
table, and pours some whiskey into a tumbler) Charge 
your glass, Walter! {Walter rises and goes to the side-table) 
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the bride and bride- 
groom ! {He fills the glass from the syphon and passes it to 
Walter, then proceeds to fill his own) Betty, you must 
join us. 

BETTY (quietly). No. 

HECTOR. You can't toast him in water, of course. Has she 
cleared away yet? I'll get you some Hock. 
[He puts his glass down and moves to the door at hack. 

BETTY. Don't be so silly. I won't drink at all. 

HECTOR (amazed). Not to old Walter? 

BETTY (steadily). No. 

HECTOR. Why? 

BETTY (almost jeeringly) . Because — old Walter — has been 
my lover. 

HECTOR (stopping, and staring at her). What? 

BETTY (calmly, looking full at him). My lover . . . these 
last two years. 

HECTOR (staring stupidly at her). He has been 

BETTY (impatiently, as she taps the floor with her foot). Yes, 
yes. How often must I tell you? My lover — don't you 
know what that means? Why do you stare at me with 
those fat goggle-eyes of yours? He has been my lover — 
and now he has fallen in love with this girl and means to 
marry her. That's all. 

HECTOR (turning towards Walter, who hasn't stirred from the 
side-table). What? You? 
[Walter remains motionless and silent. 

HECTOR (in muffled tones, scarcely able to speak). You! It's 
true what this woman says? 

BETTY (contemptuously). This woman! Don't be so melo- 
dramatic! Have you forgotten my name? 



124 THE MAN IN THE STALLS 



HECTOR {turning fiercely to her, roaring madly). Silence, 
Jezebel! (She shrinks hack, in alarm, towards the fire) 
Your name! Wait a bit, I'll tell you! {He takes a step to- 
wards her — she crouches in terror against the wall) You 
shall hear what your name is! Just now I'm dealing with 
him. {He swings round to Walter) You there, you skunk 
and thief! You, you lying hound! I was your best 
friend. So you've taken my wife, have you? And now 
mean to go oflf and marry this girl. That's it.'* Oh, it's 
so simple! Here — come here — sit down. Sit down, I tell 
you. Here, in this chair. Shall I have to drag you to it? 
I want to keep my hands off you. Here. {Walter has 
moved slowly towards him. Hector has banged down a chair 
behind the centre table, Walter sits in it — Hector speaks over 
his shoulder to Betty) And you — fetch pen and ink and 



paper 

BETTY {in abject panic). Hector 

HECTOR {turning fiercely and scowling at her). If you speak 
to me I'll brain you too. Just you go in there and fetch 
the things. D'you hear? Go. {She moves into the other 
room. Hector swings round to Walter) As for you, you're 
a scoundrel. A rogue, a thief, a liar, a traitor. Of the 
very worst kind, the blackest. Not an ordinary case of a 
husband and wife — I trusted you — you were my best 
friend. You spawn, you thing of the gutter, you foul- 
hearted, damnable slug! 

[Betty comes back, dragging her feet, carrying paper and en- 
velopes and a stylograph — she puts them on the table. 

HECTOR. Not that stylograph — that's mine — his dirty hands 
shan't touch it — ^I could never use it again. Fetch your 
pen — yours — you belong to him, don't you? Go in and 
fetch it. D'you hear? 
[Betty goes into the inner room again. 

HECTOR. My wife. And you the man I've done more for 
than for any one else in the world. The man I cared for, 
you low dog. Used my house — came here because it was 
dull at the Club — and took my wife? I don't know why 



THE MAN IN THE STALLS 125 

I don't kill you. I've the right. But I won't. You 

shall pay for it, my fine fellow — you are going to 

pay — now. 

[Betty brings a pen and an inkstand; she places them on the 

table; Hector seizes them and pushes them in front of Walter. 

Betty slinks to the other side of the room, and stands by the 

sofa. 

HECTOR (to Walter). Now you write. You hear? You 
write what I dictate. Word for word. What's the old 
brute's name.'* 

WALTER. Whose? 

HECTOR. Whose! Her father, the sealing-wax man, old 
Gillingham? 

WALTER (staring). Gillingham? 

HECTOR. Gillingham. Yes. What is it? 

WALTER. You want me to write to him? 

HECTOR (nodding). To him. Who else? A confession? 
I've had that. His name? 

WALTER (dropping the pen and half rising). I won't 

HECTOR (springing upon him in a mad fury, and forcing him 
back into the chair). You won't, you dog! You dare say 
that — to me ! By Heaven, you will ! You'll lick the dust 
off this floor, if I tell you! You'll go on your hands and 
knees, and crawl! Sit down, you! Sit down and take up 
your filthy pen. So. (Thoroughly cowed, Walter has taken 
up the pen again) And now — his name. Don't make me 
ask you again, I tell you, don't. What is it? 

WALTER. Richard. 

HECTOR. Very well, Richard. So write that down. To 
Richard Gillingham. I have to-day proposed to your 
daughter, and she has accepted me. Got that? She has 
accepted me. But I can't marry her — can't marry her — 
because I have seduced the wife of my friend Hector 
Allen — 

WALTER (appealingly , dropping his pen). Hector! 

HECTOR (frantically gripping Walter by the throat, till he takes 
up his pen again) . The wife of my friend Hector Allen — 



126 THE MAN IN THE STALLS 



write It — and plainly, you hound, plainly — so — and be- 
cause I am taking the woman away with me to-night. 

BETTY {with a loud cry). Hector! 

HECTOR {over his shoulder, watching Walter write). Silence, 
over there, you! Hold your tongue! Go into your room 
and put on your things — we've done with you here ! Take 
what you want — I don't care — you don't show your face 
here again. And you — {he taps his clenched hand against 
Walter's arm) write. What are you stopping for? How 
far have you got.'^ {He peers over Walter s shoulder) 
Because — I — am — taking — the — woman — away — with 
— me — to-night. 

BETTY {beside herself, wringing her hands). Hector, Hec- 
tor 

HECTOR {savagely, as he makes a half -turn towards her). You 
still there.'^ Wait a bit. I'll come to you, when I've fin- 
ished with him. If you haven't gone and put on your 
things, you shall go off without them. Into the street. 
You'll find other women there like you. {He turns back 
to Walter) Here, you, have you written? {He looks over 
Walter's shoulder) Go on — I'm getting impatient. Go 

on, I tell you. I — am — taking — the 

[Walter is slowly writing down the words. Hector standing 
over him; Betty suddenly bursts into a peal of wild, uproarious 
laughter, and lets herself fall into a chair to the left of the 
card-table. 

HECTOR {madly). You! 

[He leaves Walter, and almost springs at her. 

BETTY {brimming with merriment). Oh, you old donkey! 
How we have pulled your leg! 

HECTOR {staring at her, stopping dead short). You 

BETTY {through her laughter, choking). Hector, Hector! Con- 
ventional situations! The usual stodge! The lover and 
husband! You goose, you wonderful old goose! 
[Walter, with a mighty effort, has pulled himself together, and 
roars with laughter too. He jumps up. Hector is standing 
there blinking, paralysed. 



THE MAN IN THE STALLS 127 

WALTER {merrily, to Betty). Oh really, you shouldn't. You've 
given it away too soon! 

BETTY. Too soon! He'd have strangled us. Did you ever 
see such a tiger? 

WALTER {chuckling hugely). He didn't give the lover much 
chance to stand up to him, did he? 

BETTY. And ivasnt he original! Dog, hound, villain, 
traitor ! 

WALTER. To say nothing of Jezebel! Though, between 
ourselves, I think he meant Messalina! 

BETTY. And I was to go into the street. But he did let me 
fill my bag! 

WALTER. I think the playwrights come out on top, I do 
indeed. {He goes to Hector, and stands to left of him) 
Hector, old chap, here's the letter! 

BETTY {going to the other side of Hector, and dropping a low 
curtsey). And please, Mr. Husband, was it to be a big bag, 
or a small bag, and might I have taken the silver teapot? 
[Hector has been standing there stupid, dazed, dumbfounded, 
too bewildered for his mind to act or thoughts to come to him; 
he suddenly bursts into a roar of Titanic, overwhelming 
laughter. He laughs, and laughs, staggers to the sofa, falls 
on it, rocks and roars till the tears roll down his cheeks. He 
sways from side to side, unable to control himself — his laughter 
is so colossal that the infection catches the others; theirs be- 
comes genuine too. 

BETTY {with diflcidty, trying to control herself). The letter! 
Old Gillingham! "His name, scoundrel, his name!" 

WALTER {gurgling). With his hand at my throat! Sit there, 
villain, and write! 

BETTY. "I'll deal with you presently! Wait till I've fin- 
ished with him!" 

WALTER. "Into the street!"? At least, they do usually say 
"into the night!" 

HECTOR {rubbing his eyes and panting for breath). Oh, you 
pair of blackguards! Too bad — no, really too bad! It 
was! I fell in, I did! Oh, Lord, oh. Lord, what a night- 



128 THE MAN IN THE STALLS 



mare! But it wasn't right, really it wasn't — no really! 
My Lord, how I floundered — head and shoulders — swal- 
lowed it all! Comes of reading that muck every day — ■ 
never stopped to think! I didn't! Walter, old chap! 
{He holds out his hand) Betty! My poor Betty! (He 
draws her towards him) The things I said to you! 

BETTY (carelessly eluding the caress). At least admit that 
you're rather hard on the play writing people! 

HECTOR (getting up and shaking himself). Oh, they be 
blowed ! Well, you have had a game with me ! (He shakes 
himself again). Brrrrr! Oh, my Lord! What I went 
through ! 

BETTY. It was a lark! you should have seen yourself! Your 
eyes starting out of your head! You looked like a mur- 
derer ! 

HECTOR. By Jove, and I felt it ! For two pins I'd have 

BETTY. And Mary Gillingham! That's the funniest part! 
That you could have thought he was engaged — to her! 
[Involuntarily the smile dies away on Walter's face; he turns 
and stares at her; she goes on calmly. 

BETTY. When she happens to be the one girl in this world 
he can't stand! 

WALTER (with a movement that he can't control). Betty! 

BETTY (turning smilingly to him). No harm in my telling 
Hector — he scarcely knows her! (She swings round to 
Hector again) Why, Walter simply loathes the poor girl! 
That's what made it so funny ! (At the mere thought of it 
she bursts out laughing again, and goes on speaking through 
her laughter) And I tell you — if you ever hear he's en- 
gaged to her — why, you can believe the rest of the story 
too! 

HECTOR (laughing heartily as he pats Walter on the shoulder). 
Poor old Walter! And, d'you know, I was quite pleased 
at the thought of his getting married ! I was ! (He turns 
to him) But it's better, old chap, for us — we'd have missed 
you — terribly! (With another pat on Walter's shoulder, he 
goes to the fire, and drops in the letter) Mustn't leave that 



THE MAN IN THE STALLS 129 

lying about! {He turns) Well, by Jove, if any one had 

told me. . . . And drinking to him, and all ! 
BETTY. If you'll fetch me that glass of Hock now, I will 

drink to him, Hector. To Walter, the Bachelor! 
B.^CTon {beaming) . So we will! Good. I'll get it. 

[He bustles into the dining room. 
BETTY {moving swiftly to Walter). Well, now's your time. 

One thing or the other. 
WALTER {savagely). You fiend! 

BETTY. I'll go and see her to-morrow — see her constantly — 
WALTER. Why are you doing this.'^ 
BETTY. You've ruined my life and his. At least, you shan't 

be happy. 
WALTER, And you imagine I'll come back to you — that we'll 

go on, you and I.^* 
BETTY {scornfully). No — don't be afraid! You've shown 

yourself to me to-day. That's all done with — finished. 

His friend now — with the load off you — but never her 

husband. Never ! 

[Hector comes bustling back, with the bottle of Hock, and a 

wine-glass that he gives to Betty — she holds it, and he fills it 

from the bottle. 
HECTOR. Here you are, my girl — and now, where's my 

whiskey.'' {He trots round to the side table, finds his glass, 

and Walter's — hands one to Walter) Here, Wallie — yours 

must be the one that's begun — I didn't have time to touch 

mine ! Here. {Walter takes it) And forgive me, old man, 

for thinking, even one minute — {He lorings him by the hand) 

Here's to you, old friend. And Betty, to you! Oh, 

Lord, I just want this drink! 
BETTY {in cold, clear tones, as she holds up her glass). To 

Walter, the Bachelor! 

[She drains her glass; Walter has his moment's hesitation; 

he drinks, and with tremendous effort succeeds in composing 

his face. 
HECTOR {gaily). To Walter, the Bachelor! {He drinks his 

glass to the dregs and puts it down) And now — for a game. 



130 THE MAN IN THE STALLS 



WALTER. I think I 

HECTOR (coaxingly). Sit down, laddie — just one rubber. 
It's quite early. Do. There's a good chap. (They all 
sit: Hector at back, Betty to the left of him, Walter to the right 
— he spreads out the cards — they draw for partners) As we 
are — you and Betty — I've got the dummy. (He shuffles 
the cards — Betty cuts — he begins to deal) That's how I like 
it — one on each side of me. Also I like having dummy. 
Now, Betty, play up. Oh, Lord, how good it is, how good! 
A nightmare, I tell you — terrible ! And really you must 
forgive me for being such an ass. But the way you played 
up, both of you! My little Betty — a Duse, that's what 
she is — a real Duse! {He gathers up his cards) And the 
gods are kind to me — I've got a hand, I tell you! I call 
No TRUMPS! 

[He beams at them, — they are placidly sorting their cards. He 
puts his hand down and proceeds to look at his dummy, as 
the curtain falls. 

CURTAIN 



'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

FREDERICK FENN and RICHARD PRYCE 

Frederick Fenn was born at Bishop Stortford In 1868. 
He is best known as an adapter of plays and the author of 
a number of successful one-act and full-length plays. His 
first successful play, "Judged by Appearances", was pro- 
duced in 1902, by the popular actor, James Welch. " 'Op- 
o'-Me-Thumb", written in collaboration with Richard Pryce, 
is the best-known work of either dramatist. It owes its 
popularity primarily to the fact that it has often been acted 
in this country by Maude Adams. 

Richard Pryce was born at Boulogne, France. Like 
Frederick Fenn, with whom he collaborated in several plays, 
he has adapted plays and is the author of a few original 
dramas. He has also written half a dozen novels. 

PLAYS (Frederick Fenn) 

Plays marked with * are in one act only. 

*Judged by Appearances Amasis (1906) 

(1902) *His Child (1906) 

*The Honorable Ghost (1902) (In collaboration with 

A Married Woman (1902) Richard Pryce) 

Saturday to Monday (1903) *The Nelson Touch (1908) 

(In collaboration with A Welsh Sunset (1908) 

Richard Pryce) Liz the Mother (1909) 

A Scarlet Flower (1903) (In collaboration with 

The Age of Innocence (1904) Richard Pryce) 

*'Op-o'-Me-Thumb (1904) The Gay Lady Doctor (1912) 

(In collaboration with (In collaboration with 

Richard Pryce) Desmond Donovan) 
*The Convict on the Hearth 
(1906) 



132 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

PLAYS (Richard Pryce) 

A Privy Council (1905) (In collaboration with 

(In collaboration with Arthur Morrison) 

W. P. Drury) Little Mrs. Cummin (1910) 

The Dumb Cake (1907) The Visit (1910) 

" 'Op-o'-Me-Thumb", "Little Mrs. Cummin", "Privy 
Council", "Dumb Cake", "The Convict on the Hearth", 
"The Nelson Touch", and "The Visit" are published by 
Samuel Fi'ench, New York. 



'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

A PLAY IN ONE ACT 



BY FREDERICK FENN and RICHARD PRYCE 



" 'Op-o'-Me-Thumb " was first produced at London in 
1904. 

Characters 

Madame Jeanne Marie Napoleon de Gallifet Didier 

Clem (Mrs.) Galloway 

Rose Jordan 

Celeste 

Amanda Afflick 

Horace Greensmith 



COPTEIQHT, 1904, BY SaMUEL FrENCH. 

Reprinted by permission of Samuel French. 

Caution. Professionals and amateurs are hereby notified that this play is fully 
copyrighted under the existing laws of the United States Government, and nobody is 
allowed to do this play without first having obtained permission of Samuel French, 
28 West 38th St., New York City. 



'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

Scene. Working room at Madame Didier's Laundry in 
Soho. In front of the large shop window that gives on to the 
street there hangs a lace curtain. Upon the glass of the upper 
half of a door "Madame Didier, Blanchisserie Frangaise" may 
be read backwards. 

It is Saturday evening before an August bank-holiday. 
Madame with goffering iron is finishing a cap at stage back left. 
Rose Jordan stands on a chair putting paper packets of collars 
and cuffs into pigeon holes. Clem {Mrs.) Galloway is mending 
socks, etc., at small table right. Celeste is sitting on a centre table 
marking off collars, etc., in account book, or slipping pink tissue 
paper into a stack of shirts, and singing as she swings her feet. 
CELESTE. Eve in her garden she was a lady, 

She never grew old n' fady. 

She might 'a' bin there to-day-dy. 

But she was inquisitive. 

Fd never 'a bin s' crazy, 

You wait till I'm 'alf a daisy. 

See me with a chance to be lazy. 
I'd keep you all alive! 

MADAME. You have make out zose bills, Celeste? 
CELESTE (nodding). 

Oh wait till I'm 'alf a daisy. 
Snakes! I'd send 'em all back to blazy. 
You give me the chance to be lazy, 
I'd 

CLEM. Couldn't be much lazier than what you are now, I 

should think — daisy or no daisy. 
CELESTE. Couldn't I? I'd have a bit of a try! 

(Resumes) 



136 ' OP-O'-ME-THUMB 



Oh when I'm a real lady, 

In a barouche I shall parady — \S1ie breaks off sud- 
denly) Where's Amanda? 

CLEM (sarcastically). Want a little 'elp with y' singin'? 

CELESTE. Where is Amanda? 

ROSE. Gone to Strahan's. 

CELESTE. What for? 

ROSE. They never sent them things they wrote about. 

CELESTE (stopping in her work). Do they expect us to do 
'em this time o' day! 

MADAME (coming down). No. No. Like always you ex- 
cite yourself for nothing. Go on. Go on. What is Mon- 
day? 'Oliday, is it not? Very well. They close. I 
close. I 'ave the things 'ere for Tuesday, hein? You mind 
your business. Always wanting to know. 

CELESTE (appeased). Well, you never do know with shops. 
It wouldn't be the first time. It was Strahan wanted 
the collars dressed in two hours last week, wasn't it, 
for some customer or other. I wouldn't 'a' done 'em, 
I know. Oh ho, (She hums to herself for a moment or two) 
Well, well. When I'm married and 'ave a 'usband to 
keep me — 

MADAME. Keep you! Bah, you know nothing, you. A 
man wants a wife who will work. Mon Dieu, if one is to 
be lazy it will not be the wife. Look at me. 

CLEM (MRS.) GALLOWAY (who has gone up to table at back to 
fetch more things and who now comes down). You're right, 
Madam. 'Usbands is all very well in their way, as I 
should be the first to deny, me of course bein' different 
and independent so to speak, but when it comes to which 
is to do the work 

CELESTE. Listen to Clem. 

CLEM. Not so much of y'r Clem. Mrs. Galloway, if you 
please. You seem to forget who I am. I've got me ring, 
I 'ave, and me lines if I do come 'ere to oblige — Mr. Gal- 
loway 'avin' poor 'ealth — besides private means, bein' a 
pensioneer. 



'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 137 

CELESTE. Pensioneer! Four pence a day, isn't it, dear? 
— and gone before twelve, they tell me, at the Pig or 
Whistle. A fine pensioneer ! You wait until I bring mine 
along. 

CLEM. Yes, I daresay there'll be some waitin' to do. What's 
your 'usband goin' to be if I may make so bold to 
inquire.'' 

CELESTE. 'Aven't quite made up me mind. But I'm just 
about tired of this. I'm not sure as I shan't go and be 
a actress for a change, and stand in the limelight and 'ave 
bokays thrown at me — 'ere chuck us some of those things. 
Rose — (begins to work frantically) — and — and 'ave lords 
waitin' at the stage door to take the 'orses out of me 
carriage 

CLEM {laughs). You'll be wantin' to be a child of myst'ry 
next, like Amanda. 

CELESTE (pausing, seriously). ' Do you think she is? 

CLEM. Is what? 

CELESTE. A child of myst'ry — what she says I mean. You 
know — all that about 'er father and about them jewels as 
somebody gives 'er. Do you know she washed that there 
shirt again last week. She says it'll be fetched one of 
these days and then there'll be a surprise for us. 

ROSE. Surprise! Garn! A little image like 'er? Ain't 
room for much up 'er sleeve. Little 'aporth o' mis'ry! 

CELESTE {thoughtfully). Well, I don't know. Things do 
'appen, y' know. I wonder 'oo 'er father reely is. {Mys- 
tified) She's so close about 'im, ain't she? And then there 
is that shirt — there's no goin' against that. 

CLEM {shortly). Lots of customers forgets things. 

CELESTE. Yes, but the care she takes of it. It's bin 'ere 
best part of a year, and I don't know 'ow many times she 
'asn't dressed it. There may be something in it, y' know. 

ROSE {pidling a long paper parcel out of one of the large pigeon 
holes — reading). "Mr. 'Orris Greensmith, to be called 
for." {Opening the paper a little and looking inside) 
Blest if I don't believe she's done it up again. It 'ad pink 



138 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 



paper in last week and now it's blue. 'Ve we got any blue 
paper, madam? No. I thought not. 

CLEM (interested). She must 'a' bought it. 

CELESTE. There. 

ROSE. Well! If II never be fetched. If 'e's 'er mash why 
doesn't 'e come 'ere and fetch it? 

CELESTE. She says it's a sort of a token, see? while 'e's 
away. Something to 'old by, she says. And then, 'e does 
send 'er things. 

CLEM (weightily). 'As anybody seen 'em? 

CELESTE. N-no, but there was a brooch, I b'lieve, and a 
necktie. 

CLEM (coming to the table centre to fetch scissors left and 
pausing in her ivork to gossip). Well, why doesn't she wear 
'em? That's it, y' see. Why doesn't she wear 'em? 

CELESTE (as if struck by this for the first time) . Yes. Why 
doesn't she? 

CLEM (sits at table right and talks confidentially). That's 
where the test comes in. Why doesn't she wear 'em — 
'stead of that bit of crape, say? Not that I've anything 
to say against that. She 'as plenty of deaths in 'er 
family — that I will say for 'er. 

ROSE (contemptuously). Lots of people 'as relations die. 
Any one can. 

CLEM (generously). No, give everybody their due, I say, 
and she does 'ave her aflSictions. I've been bereaved 
meself and I know what it is. 

ROSE. Crape's cheap enough. And she don't ask us to 
none of 'er funerals. 

CLEM (forgetting Amanda and showing an inclination to lose 
herself in pleasant retrospect). Fun'rals — the fun'rak I've 
been to in my time! There was me sister's 'usband (she 
goes back to her place right as she speaks) — all my family's 
married well, that I am thankful to say — and when she 
lost 'im she done the thing 'andsome I tell y'. (To 
Celeste) Gimme them vests — no — there by the socks. 
Under y' nose, stupid! There was as many as three 



'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 139 

mournin' coaches an' a 'earse with plumes — and the 
'atbands ! — well ! — and afterwards we — 

CELESTE. That'll do, Clem. We know all about that — 
and y' cousins too as died at 'Ighb'ry. It's Amanda I'm 
talking about, not you. I wonder whether she could show 
us one of them presents. Good mind to ask 'er. Why 
don't she come in.? 

ROSE. Gone a errand, I tell y'. 

CELESTE. Well, she might be back be now, I should think. 
Talk about 'ares and tortoise shells! I'd 'a' done it on 
me 'ead. She's a fair crawler, Amanda is. 

ROSE {laconically). Legs is short. 

CELESTE. So's time, and I don't want to be 'ere all 
night. 

MADAME {coming down). She is little, but she is good. She 
work. She does not talk, talk, talk. She is not singing 
when she should be working. Where should I be, me, 
with another like you? And this Saturday and I forced 
to go out at five! Five, mon Dieu, and it wants but ten 
minutes. 
[She goes up left right. 

CELESTE {absently). I wonder whether she's got anybody 
to take 'er out a Monday. Think she 'as.'' 

ROSE. It'd be a funny sort o' feller as 'd want to. {She 
looks over her shoulder towards the glass door) 'Ere she is. 
'Ere's Mandy. 

[The door right is pushed open and Amanda Afflick comes in 
backwards pulling after her a washing basket nearly as large 
as herself. She is an odd, forlorn looking little figure with 
big eyes and a pathetic expression. She has yet an air of 
being quite capable of taking care of herself. 

ROSE. Well, Craipe. 

MADAME. Ah, you have come back. You have brought the 
money. {Amanda hands her a paper and some loose change) 
That is right. Now I may go and you will help these 
good-for-nothings to finish. 
[She takes the cap on its stand and puts it on end of table 



140 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

back, then goes into inner room left whence she returns a mo- 
ment or two later with her cloak. 

CELESTE {to Amanda). Didn't 'appen to meet ch' father, 
did y'? 

CLEM. We thought perhaps as you was gone s' long that 
you'd ran away with that mash o' yours — 'im as goes with- 
out 'is shirt. 'Orris Whatsaname. 

AMANDA. Oh. Didy'? {She sidles past Clem who is leaning 
over a basket and giving her an intentional ''shove" sends her 
sprawling across it) Now then, Mrs., can't y' make room 
for a lady? 

CLEM {getting up, and angry). They don't teach y' manners 
in the work'us, do they, Clumsy? 

AMANDA. You'll find out when you get there, dear. 

ROSE {linking arms with Celeste left, coming towards Amanda 
in front of table center) We've got a new bow to-day. 
[She points to a band of black crape round Amanda's arm. 

CELESTE. So she 'as! Where did y' git that, S'rimp? 
[Amanda arranges the bow on her arm, pulling out the ends. 

AMANDA. I've been doin' a little shoppin' this afternoon, 
and I bought this Rembrandt in case you was took off 
sudden, S'leste. S'leste! {She gives a little chuckle) It 
is a name, ain't it? Where did y' git it? Off the front of 
a shop, eh? 

Pretty Celeste 

'Ad a very weak chest. 

If 'er chest 'd been stronger 

Me tale 'd been longer. 

[She hoists herself on the table. Clem and Rose laugh shrilly. 

Celeste flushes. 
CELESTE. Weak chest y'self. What's wrong with my chest? 
AMANDA {sitting on table). Bit narrer, dear, isn't it? But 

p'raps it's the cut o' y' bodice. Some of those bodice- 

'ands can spoil things a treat, can't they? 
CELESTE. What do y' know about it. You shut y' face. 

You! you ain't got no figger, you never dresses, you ain't 



'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 141 

got enough 'air to go in a locket, and every feller I know 
says as you're a bloomin' little monkey without a stick. 
So, now, there! 

MADAME {bustling into outdoor things and interposing to pre- 
vent the quarrel developing). Now, now, now! One would 
think that in life there was nothing to do. You quarrel, 
you talk, you sing. Do I sing.? Mon Dieu, no. Celeste 
she sing till she make my 'ead ache, and then it is you. 
(To Amanda, who gets off table) And you all talk, talk, 
talk like I don't know what. For shame. Now I go, and 
you, Celeste, will go to Madame Jones with 'er things — 
they are listed, eh.*^ — and Mrs. Galloway will take M. 
Gigot 'is waistcoat, and Rose, you will not forget Miss 
Smeet's dress. She must 'ave it to-night. Now quick all 
of you. Amanda will wait for me. I shall not be long. 
Now attention! No more singing, do you 'ear? You can 
sing if you want, in the street, and then you will be run in 
for drink to punish you. 
[She goes out left. Rose jumps off her chair. 

ROSE. Is she gone? Lord, I wish it was Monday! I shan't 
git up all to-morrow so's to rest meself. Do 'ope it'll be 
fine. 

CLEM. I expect it will. Makes such a difference, bank 
'oliday, don't it? P'tickler when it's 'Am'stead. 

ROSE. Course it's 'Am'stead. What d' you think. 

CLEM {crossing to Rose and Celeste right) . We should 'a' gone 
there too, only for Mr. Galloway 'avin' a aunt at Green- 
wich — though of course bein' married I'm different, so to 
speak. We shall go be tram, I expect, and then there 's 
th' 'ill in the Park, an' the 'eath close by an' all. But I 
don't know as I shouldn't like to be goin' with y'. 

ROSE {half ignoring her). Wish you was, dear. {Turning to 
Celeste) S'leste, you an' Albert will be ready, won't you? 
You must be 'ere first thing, cause of me and my friend 
pickin' y' up. 
[Clem goes up left, presently returns to her work right. 

CELESTE. We'll be ready. Rather. What ho! {Seeing 



142 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

Amanda, who has been looking from one to another and who 
stands a little bit wistfully outside the group) Well, Mandy, 
got someone to take y' out Monday, eh? 

AMANDA (starts and pulls herself together) . I — I don't know 
as I can go out at all a Monday. Y' see prop'ly speakin' 
I'm in mournin'. 

CELESTE. You're always in mournin' 'oliday time — you was 
at Easter, too. I believe meself 

AMANDA (quickly). Well, so I was. I lost me aunt on the 
mother's side just before Good Friday. This (she touches 
crape bow) is for me cousin's niece as passed away quietly 
last week in — in Kensington. We — we 'ad been estranged 
for some time, but now she is gone I bear 'er no malice, 
and she shall never 'ave it to say as I didn't pay 'er proper 
respect. And besides I don't know as I care to go out in 
my circumstances. 

CELESTE. Your circumstances! What are they? 

AMANDA. Oh, well — till — till 'e comes for me, y' know. 

ROSE. Till 'e comes for 'is shirt, eh? — the tall 'andsome 
stranger as none of us 'as never seen — n' never wont. 
(She jumps on a chair again and takes out parcel) Garn. 
You've made it all up about 'im, I believe. "Mr. 'Orris 
Greensmith, to be called for " ! "Miss Amanda Afflick, to 
be called for " ! That's more like it. 'Ere, Clem! Ketch. 
[She pitches parcel to Mrs. Galloway. 

AMANDA (starting forward) . Give it 'ere. 

CLEM (holding it high). Y' been washin' it again, Crapie, 
'aven't y'? 

AMANDA. Give it 'ere. 'Tain't yours. 

CLEM. Ketch, S'leste. 
[She throws it to Celeste. 

CELESTE. Better not wash it any more. It's gettin' so 
thin it '11 blow away one of these days. 

AMANDA (fiercely). Give it me. 

CELESTE. Not so fast. 

AMANDA. Give it to me! 

CELESTE. Tell us the truth then. You been coddin' us 



'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 143 

I about it all this time, 'aven't you? 'Orris or whatever *e's 
called 'as left it 'ere didn't take no notice of y' at all, now 
did 'e? 

AMANDA (at back of centre table as Celeste dances round with 
shirt). Didn't 'e? P'raps 'e's never wrote to me neither, 
letters and letters on scented paper with crests and coats 
o' arms — and sealing wax too. You're jealous all the lot 
o' y'! Give it 'ere. You'll mess it. Oh {half crying) 
you'll mess it and 'e might come for it to-day. Give it 'ere. 

CLEM. Let 'er 'ave it, S'leste. 

CELESTE (holds it high). If I do will y' show me that brooch? 

AMANDA. What brooch? 

CELESTE. You kuow. The one you told us about. The 
minnycher set in diamonds. 

AMANDA (affecting unconcern). Oh, 'aven't I shown it to y'? 

CELESTE. No n' none of 'is presents. If I give it y', will y'? 

AMANDA (hesitates). I — I don't know where I put it. 

CELESTE. Well then the bracelet with the turquoise. 

AMANDA. I — I lent that to me cousin for 'er niece's funeral. 
She 'asn't sent it back yet. 

CELESTE. Well then one of the other things then — some 
presents as 'e's give y', will y'? 

AMANDA. Give me my shirt. 

CELESTE. Will y' then? 

AMANDA. All right. 

CELESTE. There y ' are. Kipper ! Ketch ! 

[Amanda catches the shirt and with her back to the others 
gently fondles it for a moment as a mother might fondle a 
child. Then pulling a chair forward and climbing it she 
puts the parcel safely away on a shelf. 

CELESTE. Seein's believin' y' know, and when we've seen — 
no 'anky-panky mindje ! — some jewel or something. 

AMANDA. All right. 

CLEM (indidgently) . Let 'er alone, S'leste. That'll do. 

AMANDA (standing on chair to put away the shirt, turns fiercely) . 
'Ere what's it got to do with you. You keep your oar 
out of my wheel. I can take care of meself , Mrs. Clemen- 



144 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

tina William Galloway. You think just because I'm not 
twelve feet 'igh and six foot round like some people as I 
can't 'old me own with a pack of chatterin' girls like 
S'leste 'ere and Rose Allelujah Jordan. One more river 
to cross! What ho! I spurn the lot of you. You're no 
more to me than a herd of buzzin' flies. {Quieting down) 
I go 'ome from 'ere and I set on the sofa and read 'is letters, 
and all what 'appens in this 'ouse o' bondage is no more to 
me than a dream of the night! 

CLEM. Does 'e know what your temper is? 

ROSE. Little spitfire! 

AMANDA. There, dear, I don't mean it. Only y' see when 
y'r'ead's full of more important things and there's wonder- 
ful changes loomin' before y' it's apt to make y' a bit 'asty. 
There, Clem, (goes to her) I didn't mean to be cross. One 
of these days you shall know all. 

CELESTE {impressed in spite of herself). When did y' 'ear 
from 'im last? 

AMANDA. Wednesday week — no, Tuesday it would be. 

ROSE. Did 'e send y' anything then? 

AMANDA. 'E's goin' to. 

CELESTE. Something nice! 
[Amanda nods. 

CELESTE. Is it a ring? 

AMANDA. No. 

CLEM. 'E's too sharp for that, eh, Mandy? 

AMANDA. Better than that. {Gets on the table again) It's — 
it's a hairloom — one of those things you wear in it at the 
op'ra. 

CELESTE. I know — a tarara. 

AMANDA. Yes. {The girls stop working and loll on the table 
listening open-mouthed) It sticks in y'r 'ead with spikes 
and it's got diamonds and em'rals and stars all round — 
it sticks up like a crown and it glitters — fit to blind y'. 

CELESTE. 'E must 'ave a lot o' money. 

ROSE. Seems to chuck it about, don't 'e? 

CELESTE. But you ain't seen 'im again? 



'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 145 

AMANDA. No. But 'c's comin'. 

CELESTE. 'Ere? 

AMANDA. Yes. There's a understandin', y' see. There's 

clouds on the horizon — that why there's all this mystery. 

But when 'e fetches 'is shirt — it's a sort of a sign, see — I 

shall know that bright days are in store. 
CLEM {joining the table group after affecting indifference). But 

what I want to know is — me of course 'avin' a 'ome of 

me own and bein' in a responsible p'sition so to speak — 

what I want to know — is 'e going to marry y'? 
AMANDA. When 'e's asked me father. 
ROSE. Asked y' father.? 
AMANDA. Everybody respectable does that. A young fella 

comes along and 'e says, isn't she beautiful, 'e says, I'd die 

for 'er, I wish she'd walk on me, through my 'eart first. 

But 'e don't say nothing to 'er, not till 'e's been to 'er 

father — if 'e's any class, y' know. 
ROSE. But you're not beautiful. I'm a lot better lookin' 

than what you are and I shouldn't like any chap to go to 

my father. 
AMANDA {sweetly). Of course if y' father 'appens to be doin' 

a bit in 'Olloway it makes a difference. 
ROSE. 'Olloway! Jail bird y'self! I don't believe a word 

of it. I don't believe 

CELESTE. Easy, Rose. {Pulling her away) Let's 'ear. {To 

Amanda) 'As 'e seen y' father? 
AMANDA. Not yet — because — because of law suits, and then 

there's a missin' will, y' see. 
CELESTE. Missin' wilLf* 
AMANDA {setting herself again on table centre). Well, there 

should be rights, but I think we'd got over that. Y' see 

it's like this: My father wanted me to grow up without 

any rank or pearls or carriages so as I shall be loved just 

for myself alone 

CLEM. She's coddin'. She's only a workus girl and never 

'ad no father. 
AMANDA. I'm not. It's true. I've thought about it and 



146 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 



dreamt about it till I know it's true. Besides you'll see. 
I'm goin' to 'im in oh such a little while. 

CELESTE. And what about 'Orris? 

AMANDA. I shall ask 'im if 'e loves me passionately, and if 
'e says yes, I shall lay one white jew'ld 'and in 'is, and look 
into 'is pleadin' eyes and say, 'Orris, because you loved me 
truly when I was pore and in disguise, you shall 'ave your 
reward. 

CELESTE {to the others). It sounds all right, don't it.? 

CLEM (rises). 'Ere, come along, girls. What's the good o' 
'angin' about listenin' to all this rubbish when we got these 
things to take 'fore we can go. 'Ere, bustle up, S'leste. 
The old woman '11 be back again mongdewing like Lord- 
save-us-all if she finds they ain't gone. {Celeste and Rose 
go into inner room to put on their hats and coats) You show 
us that present, Corpsie, or find some one to take y' out a 
Monday, and then p'raps we'll see about believin' y'. 
Come, Rose. 
[She goes into inner room left. 

AMANDA {absently and waving her hand) . I have always loved 
you, 'Orris. Now your patience is rewarded. Rise and 
take me to my carriage. 

ROSE {putting on her hat and helping Celeste with her coat as 
she and Clem reappear with their things). Carriage! You 
find somebody with a moke and a barrer to take y' to 
'Amstead. 

AMANDA (loftily). I'm not goin' on Monday. Bank 'olidy! 
It's just for ordinary people as 'ave no prospex and nothing 
better to think of. 

ROSE. Oh, indeed. (She picks up basket back centre) Well, 
I 'ope. Miss Amander AfBick, as you'll enjoy yours all 
alone by y 'r own self with nobody asked y' to go with 'em ! 

CLEM. Don't git run away with by a earl or anything like 
that while we're out. 

CELESTE. So long, Corpsie. Y' got to show us one of them 
presents, y' know. 'Ere, wait for me. Rose. 
[They troop out left with their packages. 



'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 147 

AMANDA (when the door has closed behind them sits still for a 
moment or two. When she lifts her face it is seen to be work- 
ing. To herself). Monday! I should like to be goin' to 
'Amstead — or anywheres. They might 'a' asked me to go 
with 'em. Somebody might. Nobody never won't. 
Never, never, never. 'Oo wants me? 'Oo could? I 
couldn't. Oh, well. 

[She sniffs drily and getting up and moving to rack climbs the 
chair again and takes down the rescued shirt. Very carefully 
and lovingly she refolds it in its covering, holds it to her for a 
moment and puts it back on the shelf. She is turning once 
more to the room when the door is flung open and Horace 
Greensmith enters right. He is a young workman of suf- 
ficiently ordinary appearance, the type of navvy who may 
always be seen in London breaking up main thoroughfares 
with sledge-hammer and wedge. 

HORACE. 'Ere, two-foot-nothing. Where's Mother Didier? 

AMANDA (getting off chair quickly). Oh, Mr. Greensmith! I 
thought you was dead. Oh! (Sits) Oh! 

HORACE. Mr. Greensmith! You know my name. And 
who might you be to think I was dead? 

AMANDA. Oh — you must excuse me — but I did indeed. 
[She puts her hand over her heart. 

HORACE. Did y'. Well, I'm jolly well not. 

AMANDA (faintly). Oh, it's like one from the grave. I shall 
be all right in a minute. 

HORACE. Well, be quick about it. Now are y' better! 
Very well, then, touchin' a shirt I left 'ere. Has the old 
woman sold it or lost it? Is she goin' to fork it out or 
does she want me to summons her for it? Go an' arsk *er. 
Look slippy. 

AMANDA. It's all right, Mr. Greensmith. It's been took 
pertikler care of. 

[Fetches it, and undoing the paper in which it is wrapped, 
displays the shirt to him proudly. 

HORACE. Jeroosalem! Did y' wash it yesterday? 

AMANDA. Yes, Mr. Greensmith. 



148 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 



HORACE. Not SO much o' y' Mr. Greensmith. 'Oo told y' 
to wash it yesterday! Did the old woman twig I was 
comin'? 

AMANDA. No, Mr. — 'Orris. I've washed it every week, 
ever since you left it so as to 'ave it ready for you. 

HORACE. S'help me, Jimmy, you must be 'ard up for some- 
thing to do! Y' don't think I'm going to pay for all that, 
doy'? 

AMANDA. Oh, no, Mr. Greensmith. If you was to stuff the 
money down me throat wild horses wouldn't make me 
swallow it. 

HORACE. H'm ! Well, I ain't going to. What's the damage, 
anyhow.? 

AMANDA. We don't want you to pay anything, reelly. 

HORACE. Oh, we don't, don't we! That suits me Al. You 
may stick over the door then. Washers by appointment to 
'Orris Greensmith, Esquire. Do you do all y'r work like 
that? Is this a charitable institution or what is it? 

AMANDA. Oh, no, Mr. 'Orris, we aren't charitable, oh, 
not at all. You see we — that is / thought we should never 
see you no more. You'd been away so long — there seemed 
nothing else to think 

HORACE. Well, I'm jiggered. Deaders on the free list, eh? 
'Oly Moses! 

AMANDA. You don't think it was a liberty, do you? 

HORACE {looks at her a moment and then hursts out laughing). 
Strike me silly if I ever came across anything quite as 
dotty before. I was dead, was I, and this was a blasted 
souvenir. 'Oo the blazes wanted a blasted souvenir of me? 
Not you ! 

AMANDA. I know it was a liberty, Mr. Greensmith. 

HORACE. 'Ere, 'andle me carefully. I shall faint. 

AMANDA. I'm very sorry if you're angry. 

HORACE. Was you 'ere when I come before? 

AMANDA {eagerly). Oh, yes, Mr. Orris. It was at a quarter 
to five one Wednesday — don't you recklekt? It was 
in October, the 15th and there was a crool fog all the 



'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 149 

morning. You was coughin' and saying things about the 

weather. 
HORACE. Was I? 
AMANDA. Don't you remember? 
HORACE. I remember the fog — but then I remember a lot 

o' fogs. 
AMANDA. I've thought of it every day since. 
HORACE. 'Ere, what are you anyway? 
AMANDA. I'm a orphin. I don't say so but I am — only to 

you I mean, I — what'U you think of me, Mr. Greensmith ? 

— I — I was born in the Union. 
HORACE. I got no call to think one way or the other. 
AMANDA. I wouldn't 'a' told no one else. But I couldn't 

tell you — well, what I tell the others. 
HORACE. The others? Are there any more 'ere like you? 
AMANDA. Oh, no, I don't think there's any others anywhere 

like me. 
HORACE. No, I dessay not. 
AMANDA. Of course, I'm not very tall. We don't grow much 

in the work'ouse — but some o' them large girls is very 

fickle, don't you think so, Mr. Greensmith? 
HORACE. No girls is any good. 
AMANDA. Oh, Mr. Orris, you ain't married, are y'? 
HORACE. Not much. 
AMANDA (relieved). Oh — I thought jes fer a moment — you 

mustn't mind me. Oh, I am glad. 
HORACE. Married. Yah. Knows too much about it. 
AMANDA. I'm glad ye're not married, any way. Y' see, Mr. 

Greensmith, if you won't think it a liberty what I am tell- 
ing you, I always thought of you as a sort of fairy prince, 

y' see; and they aren't never married, are they? 
HORACE (stretches out one leg and looks at it dubiously). 'Ere, 

my 'ead '11 go if I stop much longer. A fairy — you've 

been ill, 'aven't you? 
AMANDA. Oh, no, Mr. 'Orris, I'm never ill. I'm very strong, 

and work ! Well, you should see me on a busy day ! It's 

only 



150 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

HORACE. Only what? 

AMANDA. Well, when you ain't got much of y'r own you 
do dream about beautiful things, don't you? That's how 
I came to think of you. 

HORACE. Thank you — very kind of you, don't mention it. 
(Pause) Well, chuck us the shirt. 

AMANDA (brings it to him slowly). I suppose you'll send us 
some other things. 

HORACE. Don't know; can't say. (Amanda furtively v/ipes 
one eye) Hello. What's the matter with y'? 

AMANDA. Oh, nothing. 

HORACE. What's that crape for? 

AMANDA. I say it's for relations. 

HORACE. Oh, well, pull up your socks and grin, y' can't 
'ave y' relations always, y' know. 

AMANDA. I never 'ad no relations. 

HORACE. Well, what d' y' wear the bow for then? Y' don't 
know what y're talking about. Y' wears it for your re- 
lations and you never 'ad none. Rottin' sort of goin' into 
mourning that. Where's y' father? (Amanda shakes her 
head) Oh, well — where's y' mother, anyway? 

AMANDA. She's dead — she died when I was quite little — oh, 
well, littler than I am now. But it ain't for 'er. 

HORACE. 'Oo is it for? 

AMANDA. You won't tell the other girls, will y'? 

HORACE. No. What should I want t' go jawin' about you 
for? 

AMANDA. You See, I tell them that I got a father who's rich 
— ever so rich — and who's coming to take me away, see, 
like in a story. I'm in disguise now, but one day 'e'U 
come and say "Apparel 'er in ermine," and then I shall go 
away and be a lady. I used to think he would really 
come, but now I guess 'e's dead, though I tell them 'e's 
comin'. I don't wear it for 'im though. I keep on changin' 
'oo it's for. Y' see I felt I must wear it. (Looks up shyly) 
But I can take it oflf now, Mr. 'Orris. 
[A pause. 



'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 151 

HORACE. Well of all. Give us the shirt. 

AMANDA. Are y' goin' at once? 

HORACE. Well, since you are so pressin' I got about 'alf a 

minute t' waste. Now then. 
AMANDA. Nothin', I jes wanted to see you. Y' can smoke 

if y' like. 
HORACE. Make meself at 'ome, eh, and what for! 

[Sits on table. 
AMANDA {coming near to him left standing beside him). Y' 

said y' wasn't married. Are y' in love, Mr. Greensmith? 
HORACE. Oh, chuck it. What's that to do with you? 
AMANDA. I want to know pertickler. 
HORACE. Well, I ain't jes' now. 
AMANDA. I expect lots o' girls is in love with you. 
HORACE. Oh, yes. I can't 'ardly get down the street for 'em. 
AMANDA. You Wouldn't say I was pretty, would y', Mr. 

Greensmith? 
HORACE. I 'aven't thought about it. 
AMANDA. You Wouldn't think about it, would y'? 

HORACE {indulgently). W-ell 

AMANDA. Eh? but looks ain't everything, are they? Some 

o' them pretty girls they aren't content when one feller 

likes 'em, they wants a lot o' chaps to say as they're 

beautiful. 
HORACE. Don't I know it? 'Orris Greensmith ain't goin' 

to be one of them. 
AMANDA. You ain't very 'asty, are you? 
HORACE. Middhn'. What's up? 
AMANDA. I don't hardly like to tell y'. 
HORACE. 'Ere, what y' been doin' of? 

[Stojps in act of lighting pipe and stares at her toith match in 

his hand. 
AMANDA {wriggling in front of him). I want to tell y', Mr. 

Greensmith, but I'm afraid you won't like it. 
HORACE. Not knowing, can't say. Stand still, can't y'? 
AMANDA. Y' might turn round, will y', and look out the 

winder? I don't like bein' looked at — then I'll tell y'. 



152 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 



HORACE {stares at her hard a minute). Well, there ain't much 

to look at, is there? Now then. 

[Turns round and lights up pipe. 
AMANDA. Y' see — y' see — it's like this, Mr. 'Orris. You 

comin' in and seein' me last year and never comin' 'ere 

again all the girls what's 'ere says as 'ow you were in love 

with me. 
HORACE (turning round promptly). What! Me! Wodder 

they take me for? In love ! Lord save us. 

AMANDA. Y' know girls will talk, Mr. 'Orris. 

HORACE. Yuss, they talks right enough if you give them 'alf 

a chance. Well, is that what y' wanted to tell me, 'cause 

if so y' could 'a' kep' it to y'self. 
AMANDA. That ain't all. 
HORACE. 'Ope y' jolly well told 'em I wasn. 
AMANDA. No. I didn't tell 'em that. 
HORACE. D'y' mean to tell me a pack o' girls thinks as I — 

[Roars with laughter. Amanda stands shamefaced and 

nervous. 
AMANDA. I 'oped y' wouldn't laugh, Mr. 'Orris. 
HORACE. Wouldn't laugh. Ho, no ! but it is a bit thick, isn't 

it! So I'm in love with you, am 1? Would y' like t' get on 

the table and then y'r lovin' 'usband could give y' a kiss. 

[Amanda begins to get on table. 
HORACE (amazed). Did y' think I was really goin' to kiss y'? 
AMANDA. I should like y' to kiss me, Mr. 'Orris. 
HORACE (sinks into chair). Phew. 'Ere, I'm gettin' 'ot. 

Give us a chance. You go too quick fer me. 
AMANDA (squatting on the table and smoothing her dress and 

pulling it over her boots) . I didn't know as gentlemen didn't 

like bein' kissed. 
HORACE. 'Ere, let's look at y'. 

[Pause. 
AMANDA (looking at him diffidently). You are 'andsome, 

aren't you, Mr. 'Orris, but I s'pose you know that. 
HORACE. I've 'eard something about it. 
AMANDA. That ain't all what I told y' jes' now. 



'OP-0-ME-THUMB 153 

HORACE. What! 

AMANDA. All the other girls they've got fellers to give 'em 

things. 

HORACE. You don't say so. Well, you ain't goin' to catch 



me 



AMANDA. Oh, no, but I didn't like their sayin' as nobody 
ever giv' me anything, so I bin tellin' them as you gave me 
lots an' 'caps o' things — dimonds and joolery and watches 
— 'andsome, y' know. I didn't know as you'd come back. 
I'd waited so long — and at last I went into mournin' — 

'but I kep' on sayin' about the presents and letters, and now 
I 'aven't even anything to be in mournin' for, and they'll 
say as they always knew as I was kiddin', and {sniffs) 
they didn't — they reelly thought it was true what I told 
them. I know it was a liberty, Mr. 'Orris, but I 'oped you 
wouldn't mind. 

HORACE {whistles. Slowly) . They thinks as I've been stuffing 
you up with presents. 

AMANDA. Yes, Mr. 'Orris. 

HORACE. Well, you've just about made a nice mess of 
things, ain't y'.? 

AMANDA. Couldn't you 

HORACE. Couldn't I do it really. Not much. 

AMANDA. I didn't mean that, but as you ain't dead couldn't 
you go on sayin' nothin' and let me go on pretendin' ? 

HORACE. No. 

AMANDA. It wouldn't cost y' nothin'. Why won't y'? 

HORACE. Yes. Why won't I? 

AMANDA {walking away very much downcast). I thought you 

might like to oblige a lady. 
HORACE. What next! {Amanda goes up to window and dries 

her eyes with her apron) What 'r y' snuffling about, y' 

little beggar? 
AMANDA. Nothin', Mr. 'Orris. 
HORACE. They must be a precious lot o' mugs them girls if 

they swaller a tale like that. I never heard o' such a thing. 

[He leans against table with his back to audience. 



154 'OP-0-ME-THUMB 

AMANDA. They didn't believe it for a long while, but now 

they believes it, an' about me father, too. 

HORACE. Father! Didn't y' say he was a gonner 

AMANDA (faintly and tearfully). I don't know, though I guess. 

But {rather proudly) they think I've got a father as rich as 

ever 'e could be, and 'andsome, more 'andsome even than 

you. 
HORACE. Pretty sort o' father to leave you in this 'ole then. 
AMANDA. They think 'e's comin' to fetch me. 
HORACE. Best 'urry up I should say. 
AMANDA (gives a little gesture). Oh, don't you see! I got 

nothing, Mr. 'Orris — nothing. 

[She subsides and burying her face in the hollow of her arm 

cries silently. Pause. 
HORACE. 'Ere, funny, you needn't drown the place out. 

Tell 'em what you blasted well like. I don't care. (Kicks 

a clothes basket) I don't care. 
AMANDA. Oh, Mr. 'Orris. 

HORACE. Yes, oh, Mr. 'Orris, but you don't catch me com- 
ing 'ere no more. 
AMANDA. You won't comc 'ere again! 
HORACE. No fear. Is it likely.? What d'ye take me for.? 
AMANDA. Then I don't know as I'll tell 'em anything then. 
HORACE. Suit yourself. 

AMANDA. I'd rather — oh, I don't care what they think. 
HORACE. Look 'ere, nipper. (He comes to her) I'm goin' 

to talk like a father to you. You're puttin' y'r money on 

the wrong 'orse — not as I'm a wrong'un mindje, but if 

you was to talk to some chaps like this 

AMANDA (quickly). Oh, but I wouldn't. 

HORACE. That's all right then. Now you give me my 

shirt and I'll be off and (generously) you tell those girls just 

what you damn well please. 
AMANDA (looking at the parcel lingeringly) . You're goin' to 

take it. 
HORACE. Time I did, isn't it? 
AMANDA. I shan't 'ave nothin' to remember y' by. 



'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 155 

HORACE. Would y' like a lock o' me 'air? 'Ere — 'ere's a 
present for y'. {He takes a pin out of his tie) Gold pin, 
42 carat, diamond mounted, pearl centre, em'rald border 
encrusted with rubies. (Polishes it on his sleeve) New cut 
2-9. There, my dear. 

AMANDA (delighted). Oh, Mr. 'Orris! 

HORACE. Now we're quits. 

AMANDA (excitedly). I did want something to show to 
S'leste, and it is lovely, lovely, but — but 

HORACE. What now? 

AMANDA. It means as you're goin' for ever. Couldn't — 
couldn't you keep it and not 

HORACE. Not what? 

AMANDA. Not go. It — it 's like you dyiu' all ovcr again. 

HORACE. Well of all the treats 

AMANDA (ivith a neiv thought). Where are y' goin' now? 

HORACE. 'Ome, I s'pose. 

AMANDA. We — we do send things 

HORACE. What are y' drivin' at? 

AMANDA. Say I was to bring y' this. Or if you'd wait a 
little bit I might carry it out for you. It's nice strollin' 
in the summer evenin's, Mr. 'Orris, and it'd be no trouble. 

HORACE (stooping, with his hands on his knees, and thus bringing 
his face on to a level with hers). Come with me, d'y' mean? 

AMANDA. Yes. 

HORACE. Yes. We could go for strolls every evenin', eh? 

AMANDA (with a long breath). Oh — ye-es. 

HORACE (mimicking her). Ye-es! What d' y' think my 
friends 'd say? Why, as we was walkin' out. 

AMANDA. / wouldn't mind, Mr. 'Orris. 

HORACE. But what price me? 

AMANDA. I shouldn't expect y' to marry me. 

HORACE. Much obliged. Thank y'. 

AMANDA. I didn't even dream as y'd marry me really. 

HORACE. Well then, if you was to come messin' about with 
me what'd your girls 'ere say? You don't want to lose 
y' character, I s'pose. 



156 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

AMANDA. I wouldn't mind, Mr. 'Orris. 

HORACE. So 'elp me, Bob. You don't seem to mind any- 
thing. {He walks half-way to the door and pauses) 'Ere. 
Are all o' you girls goin' out a Monday? 

AMANDA. The others are. Rose and S'leste and Clem. — 
that's Mrs. Galloway. 

HORACE. But what about you? 

AMANDA. I — I'm supposed to be in mournin'. 

HORACE. 'As nobody asked y'? (Amanda hangs her head) 
'As nobody asked y'? 

AMANDA. I — (she bites her lips) — I can't pretend any more. 
(Breaking down) No. Nobody's never asked me. (She 
sohs) I s'pose now nobody never will. I see 'em all start 
times and times with their fellas. Oh, it don't matter. 
Only I didn't mean as you should know. 
[Sits. 

HORACE. Where are they goin'? 

AMANDA (sobbing gently). 'Amstead. Oh, it don't matter, 
Mr. 'Orris. 

HORACE. Yes it do. (He moves about restlessly for a minute, 
then stares at her intently) Look 'ere. Shall I take y'? 

AMANDA. D' y' mean it? 

HORACE. Did I say it? Very well then. 

AMANDA. Oh, Mr. 'Orris. 

HORACE. I'll get a trap and we'll go to 'Amstead. 

AJMANDA (in ecstasy). Oh, Mr. 'Orris. 

HORACE. All right. That's settled. I'll call for you 'ere 
at nine sharp Monday mornin'. 

AMANDA. Y' won't change y' mind. 

HORACE. No. If I say I'll do a thing I'll do it. 

AMANDA. And I may tell S'leste and the others. 

HORACE. Tell the 'ole world if y' like. Tell all Soho. 

AMANDA (dancing and clapping her hands and singing). Oh, 
it'll be joyful, joyful, joyful, joyful! I'll wear me blue 
dress that buttons up the back, and I've got a 'at as I 
'ardly worn yet. Won't the other girls stare! Not one 
of 'em's got a fella like you. Rose's Jim — why 'e's not 



'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 157 

much bigger than me. And S'leste's Albit — 'e's only a 
dustman. And as for Mr. Galloway — if 'e's sober be nine 
o'clock in the mornin' Clem'U 'ave something to be thank- 
ful for. Oh, Mr. 'Orris. Sat'dy, Sundy, Mondy. A 'ole 
day to look forward in. There won't be a 'appier lady 
anywhere Monday than what I shall be. You'll be 'ere be 
nine. (Coming back to him) That's when the others go. 

HORACE. D' they start from 'ere? 

AMANDA. Yes. 

HORACE (shifting his feet). Nine o'clock, that's all right, but 
I think it'd be better to meet by the Dispens'ry, see — in 
Paul street. 

AMANDA (her face falling a little). Paul street — right down 
there? 

HORACE. What's the matter with Paul street? Everyone 
knows the Dispens'ry. It's a good place to meet, 
ain't it? 

AMANDA. I should 'a' liked you to come 'ere. 

HORACE. What's the difference? 

AMANDA (reluctantly). I should 'a' liked 'em all to see me 
goin' off with y'. They won't more than 'alf believe else. 

HORACE. Paul street's much more convenient. 

AMANDA. There won't be the crowd there is 'ere. 

HORACE. No. That's it. We don't want no crowds, do 
we? It'll be much better to go quietly from Paul street, 
won't it? You be there at nine and I'll come along and 
pick y' up. Then we shan't 'ave no waitin' about. 
(Amanda looks at him slowly) You could be at the corner, 
couldn't you, where that little court is, and come out when 
I whistled. 

AMANDA (still looking at him). Yes. I needn't show me- 
self till you come. 

HORACE. That's right. (A little pause) And er — I was 
thinkin' there's such 'undreds of people goes to 'Amstead. 
We don't want to go there, do we? What'd y' say to the 
forest? 

AMANDA. Eppin'? 



158 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 



HORACE. Yes. I know a nice quiet little bit of it where we 

could go. 
AMANDA (meekly). I don't mind, Mr. 'Orris. 

[She loalks away from him. 
HORACE. All right then. Monday, nine o'clock. Paul 

street. Blest if I wasn't goin' without me shirt after all. 

Ta-ta. 

[Is about to go. 
AMANDA {calling him hack just as he is at the door). Mr. 'Orris. 
HORACE. Yes. 

AMANDA. I — I can't go after all. 
HORACE {coming hack). Can't go! 

AMANDA. No. 

HORACE. What d' y' mean, can't go? 

AMANDA. What I say. I — {recovering herself with an effort) — 
I been pretendin'. Just to see what you'd do. 

HORACE. Pretendin' ! 

AMANDA. Yes. {Nervous and excited, but gaining confidence 
as she proceeds) You see I shouldn't be allowed to go out 
with strangers. My people wouldn't let me. I've been 
brought up different. I'm afraid you'll be very angry, but 
none of that about me bein' a orphin or born in the Union 
is true. I'm the child of poor but respectable parents, 
and I've bin very strictly brought up, and so, though I'm 
very much obliged to you, Mr. Greensmith, I mustn't 
accept your kind invitation. 

HORACE. Strike me pink! 

AMANDA. You don't mind me 'avin' a bit of a lark with y', 
do y'.'* It was so dull 'ere while the others was out. I 
couldn't 'elp it. Ha, ha, ha. If you was to seen y'r own 
face! You got a soft 'eart, that I will say. Ha, ha, ha. 

HORACE. Made a fool of me, 'ave y'. All right my girl. 
Wait till I bring y' more washin' to do. 

AMANDA. There, don't be angry. 

HORACE. Angry. 'Oo's angry? It's enough to make any- 
one angry. Why 

AMANDA. Garn. You know very well as it's a relief. 



'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 159 

HORACE. Relief? 

AMANDA (half hysterical). Not to 'ave to take me out — a 
little 'op-o'-me-thumb like me. Ain't it now.'^ And 'ave 
everybody laughin' at y', and askin' y' what it was, and 
where y'd picked it up, and why they 'adn't drowned it 
when it was born. Ho, ho. It'd be a poor world, eh, if 
we didn't get a bit o' fun out of it some'ow, and some of 
us was meant to supply all the fun for the others, it's my 
opinion. Lord, when you thought I was cryin' I thought 
I should 'a' died. Laugh! Whenever I think of it I shall 
most split meself. Y' don't mind, old man, do y'? 

HORACE. I've a good mind to wring y' neck for y'. 

AMANDA. No, don't do that. May I keep the pin? 

HORACE. Keep what y' like. 

AMANDA. I will then. Now say y' ain't angry before y' go. 

HORACE. I'll be blowed if I do. 

AMANDA. Jes' to show there's no ill feelin'. 

HORACE. Git out. 

AMANDA. Say it. 

[She stands looking up at him tremulously. 

HORACE. 'Ere. (Stares at her hard, then takes her hands and 
pulls her round to the light) Why! What'r-ye playin' at? 
Tell the truth and shame the devil. Twig? I was a fool 
to say as I'd take y'. We wasn't made for each other — 
what d'ye call yerself, 'op-o'-me-thumb? but you're a game 
little 'un, and 'Orris Greensmith's goin' to sling 'is bloomin' 
'ook. See! Now gi' us that kiss I asked y' for. 
[Kisses her quickly and in a shame-faced manner, but very 
kindly, then whips up hat and shirt and goes out quietly. 
She stands for a moment or two swaying. When she looks 
up he is gone. 

AMANDA. 'E kissed me! (Wonderingly) 'E kissed me. 
0-oh. (She looks round and begins mechanically to put the 
room tidy. Presently she bethinks her of the pin. She takes 
it out of the bosom of her dress where she has stuck it) 'E was 
ashamed of me, too. I s'pose I ought to spurn it. I 
ought really to 'a' thrown it at 'is false feet and said : "Take 



160 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 

back the jew'ls with which you 'ave loaded me, they are 
poisonin' me," but (shaking her head and rubbing the stones 
on her sleeve to make them shine) I can't. Oh, Mr. 'Orris, 
you've broken my 'eart and stuck a pin in it. But you 
did kiss me. You can't take back y' kiss. I shan't wait 
to hear their talk. Me pretendin's over and done with. 
(She pulls off her crape bow and holds it to her lips) There's 
nobody — nobody now for me to pretend . Oh, Mr. 'Orris — • 
Mr. 'Orris. 

[She crouches in a shabby little heap in the middle oj the empty 
room as the 

CURTAIN FALLS 



THE IMPERTINENCE OF THE 
CREATURE 

COSMO GORDON-LENNOX 

Cosmo Gordon-Lennox was born in 1869. For some 
years, between 1894 and 1906, he enjoyed wide experience as 
an actor under the name Cosmo Stuart. His most important 
roles were in Wilde's "An Ideal Husband", Anthony Hope's 
"The Adventure of Lady Ursula", and Henry Arthur Jones' 
"The Princess' Nose." He retired from the stage in 1906, 
devoting a large part of his time to the writing of plays, many 
of which were written in collaboration. 

The plays of Mr. Gordon-Lennox are preeminently stage 
plays, written by an actor for actors. They are soundly con- 
structed, conventionally effective, — little more. "The Im- 
pertinence of the Creature" is one of those "circumstance 
pieces" that are intended solely to amuse. The circumstance 
for which it was prepared was a Royal performance; it was 
first performed at Marlborough House in presence of "T.M. 
the King and Queen, T.M. the King and Queen of Denmark, 
T.R.H. the Prince and Princess of Wales," in 1907. 

PLAYS 

Plays marked with * are in one act only. 
Becky Sharp (1901) The Marriage of Kitty 

(In collaboration with (1903) 

R. S. Hichens) The Freedom of Suzanne 

The Little French Milliner (1904) 

(1902) 



162 THE IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE 



The Indecision of Mr. Kings- 
bury (1905) 

Miquette (1907) 

The Thief (1907) 

(From the French) 
*The Impertinence of the 
Creature (1907) 

Her Sister (1907) 

(In collaboration with 
Clyde Fitch) 

Angela (1907) 



Helena's Path (1910) 

(In collaboration with 
Anthony Hope) 

Primrose (1912) 
(From the French) 

The New Secretary (1913) 

Frisco Sal (1913) 

(In collaboration with 
Dion Clayton Calthorp) 
*The Van Dyck (1914) 
(From the French) 



"The Marriage of Kitty" and "The Impertinence of the 
Creature" are published by Samuel French, New York. 



THE IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE 

A DUOLOGUE 



By COSMO GORDON-LENNOX 



"The Impertinence of the Creature" was first produced 
at London in 1907. 

Characters 

Lady Millicent, A widow 
An Unknown Gentleman 



CoPTHiaHT, 1909, By Cosmo Gqedon-Lhnnox. 
Reprinted by permission of Samuel French. 



THE IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE 

Scene. A boudoir leading from a London ballroom. 
Enter Lady Millicent. Her manner is flurried and annoyed; 

she looks off as she hurries on. 

LADY MILLICENT. The impertinence of the creature! Thank 
heavens at last I've got rid of him ! (She sits, fanning her- 
self. Enter a gentleman, timidly and shyly; he advances 
awkwardly toward the Lady; she sees him) Oh ! {She turns 
her head away from him, he advances nearer to her. She 
crosses and sits on the opposite side of the stage. A pause; 
he follows her shyly; she rises and goes to exit; he crosses and 
gets before her) Really, this is outrageous — and absurd. 
How dare you persecute me in this way.f^ 

GENTLEMAN. I didn't mean 

LADY MILLICENT. You didn't mean. Have you or have you 
not been following me about the room ever since I came to 
this horrid ball? 

GENTLEMAN. Well, I 

LADY MILLICENT, Don't deny it. 

GENTLEMAN. I dou't 1 

LADY MILLICENT. And I dou't kuow you, I'm sure I don't 
know you. Do I.-* 

GENTLEMAN. No — I 

LADY MILLICENT {violently). Then how dare you? How dare 
you? How dare you? {She breaks her fan) If you don't 
answer me, I shall lose my temper in a minute. 

GENTLEMAN. Well — cr — cr 

LADY MILLICENT. For heaven's sake, don't stammer. It's 
extremely fortunate for you that I don't see a man I know 
here, whom I can ask to protect me from your insolence. 
But I don't know a soul in the room. I never saw such 



166 IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE 



an extraordinary lot of people; wherever they come from, 
I can't think. What an entertainment! 

GENTLEMAN. It is dull. 

LADY MiLLicENT. It's extremely bad manners to criticise 
the hospitality that's offered to you. If you find it dull, 
why don't you go home to bed? 

GENTLEMAN. I Can't! 

LADY MILLICENT. I suppose you mean that for an exagger- 
ated compliment. How dare you annoy me in this way? 

GENTLEMAN. I don't Want to annoy you. I 

LADY MILLICENT. In hcavcn's name, then, what do you 
want? 

GENTLEMAN. I — I Wanted to ask you — er 

LADY MILLICENT. If it's a Subscription to a charity, I don't 
usually take my purse with me to a ball. 

GENTLEMAN. I don't Want a subscription. I want — er — to 
take you down to supper. 

LADY MILLICENT. Ricu quc ^a! Really! I suppose you'll 
say next I look as if I was starving, and could only be saved 
from inanition by lukewarm soup and bad champagne. 

GENTLEMAN (with a smile). The champagne's all right. 

LADY MILLICENT. If you mean you've been indulging in too 
much of it, I shan't take that as an excuse. You ought to 
be ashamed of yourself. 

GENTLEMAN. Do you mean to say I'm drunk? 

LADY MILLICENT. It Wasn't I Said so. You said so 

GENTLEMAN. I — UeVCr! 

LADY MILLICENT. Pleasc — please don't contradict me. 
I've been lenient with you up till now, but I will not be 
insulted. 

GENTLEMAN. I didn't mean to insult you. My name is 

LADY MILLICENT. I don't Want to know your name. It 
doesn't interest me in the least. Now listen to me. It's 
true I don't know a soul at this ball, I don't even know my 
hostess. My sister Eleanor sent me an invitation. She 
knows these people, and I can't think why she hasn't ar- 
rived instead of leaving me to battle with these horrid 



IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE 167 

creatures and their dreadful guests. Eleanor's so dread- 
fully selfish. 

GENTLEMAN. I'm SO sorry that 

LADY MiLLicENT. Please don't insult my relations. My 
sister's selfishness has nothing to do with you. But what 
I was going to say was this, although I don't know my 
hostess, I could easily have complained to her of your 
conduct, but I'm too kindhearted. Be reasonable; if you 
wanted to make my acquaintance — why didn't you get 
someone to introduce you to me properly? 

GENTLEMAN. I hardly know anyone here. 

LADY MILLICENT. Well, I dou't blame you for that. I never 
saw such a gathering in my life. 

GENTLEMAN. Ha! ha!! 

LADY MILLICENT. Don't laugh in that idiotic way. The 
fact of your knowing no one — (suddenly) Young man, 
were you invited to this ball? Have you got an invitation? 

GENTLEMAN. No, I 

LADY MILLICENT. Of course I dou't mean have you got one 
in your pocket. But did you have one sent to you? 

GENTLEMAN. No ! 

LADY MILLICENT. Good heavciis, of all the brazen creatures ! 
You must leave the house at once. 

GENTLEMAN. I can't! 

LADY MILLICENT. But supposing you're turned out. It will 

be too dreadful. Think of the scandal! 

GENTLEMAN. You needn't worry! I 

LADY MILLICENT. Don't flatter yourself I care what happens 

to you. I don't in the least. But if there's a scandal, my 

name will be mixed up in it. People will say you came here 

to see me. 
GENTLEMAN. I did Want to see you awfully — but when I 

tell you 

LADY MILLICENT. I knew it. It's really too absurd. I've 

never set eyes on you before to-night. 
GENTLEMAN. I've Seen you, though, often since I've been 

in London. Whenever I've had the chance. 



168 IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE 



LADY MiLLiCENT (a little mollified). Don't be so absurd. 
You know that your desire to see me is no excuse. It's 
not as if I were a beautiful woman. 

GENTLEMAN. You're — ripping. 

LADY MILLICENT {half pleased). Really! 

GENTLEMAN. Your dress is — ripping, and that thing in your 
hair — you look — er — ripping. 

LADY MILLICENT. You don't Seem to have much command 
of the English language. This is rather a nice gown. 
[Smiling. 

GENTLEMAN. You look SO uice whcu you smile. So good- 
tempered and — and 

LADY MILLICENT (chafing). Ripping? 

GENTLEMAN. Ycs, ripping. 

LADY MILLICENT. I thought SO. 

GENTLEMAN. You're awfully clever, too, I expect. 
LADY MILLICENT. I expect you're awfully silly. 
GENTLEMAN. Perhaps I am. But I like clever people. I 
think they're awfully — awfully 

LADY MILLICENT. Ripping. 

GENTLEMAN. No — joUy. (He laughs, she laughs at him) 
There, you're not angry any more now. Let me tell you 
what I was going to say when I asked you to come down 
to supper with me. The fact is, I 

LADY MILLICENT. Oil, really, you are the most persistently 
annoying person ! I can't leave the house myself, because 
I've promised my sister to go down to supper with some- 
one. 

GENTLEMAN. You Can't go down with anyone but me, be- 
cause I am 

LADY MILLICENT. Please, please, I've told you I don't want 
to get you into trouble because you seem to be a gentle- 
man, and I'm sorry for you; you seem to be rather nice — 
I mean a silly sort of person, and I daresay you've no 
friends to advise you and take you in hand. 

GENTLEMAN. I wish you'd take me in hand. 

LADY MILLICENT. Well, if you'll Only go away now, you shall 



IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE 169 

find someone to introduce you to me another day, and I'll 
forget your conduct to-night. Please go. I ask you to. 
I must stay to supper. It's really unfair of you. Please 
go quietly — you're making me talk like a policeman. 

GENTLEMAN. I wou't go unlcss you tell me who you want 
to go down to supper with. 

LADY MiLLicENT. I decline 

[Rising. 

GENTLEMAN (very entreatingly) . Oh, please, do. I like hear- 
ing you talk. You were beginning to be so nice just now. 
Please tell me. Don't be unkind. 

LADY MILLICENT. Well, I 

GENTLEMAN. Please. 

LADY MILLICENT. I'm surc I don't know why I consent. 

Well, will you go away after I've told you? 
GENTLEMAN. I wiU, as soou as possible. 
LADY MILLICENT. Well, then, as you're not invited, perhaps 

you don't know that our hostess is receiving the guests of 

her brother, who is really giving this dreadful ball. Poor 

man! 
GENTLEMAN. Ha, ha! 
LADY MILLICENT. What? 
GENTLEMAN. I COUghed. 

LADY MILLICENT. Her brother is Herbert Barwell, the great 
explorer — who only returned to London the other day. 
I've been dying to meet him. 

GENTLEMAN {pleased). Have you? 

LADY MILLICENT. Dying to meet him. 

GENTLEMAN. Why? 

LADY MILLICENT. He's such a splendid fellow. I've read all 

the story of what he's done. He's a hero. 
GENTLEMAN (deprecatingly) . Oh, a hero! 
LADY MILLICENT. Yes, a hcro, and I adore brave men. 

Think of the privations he endured. 
GENTLEMAN. Oh, they weren't so bad. 
LADY MILLICENT. Not SO bad! Without water — in that 

awful climate, with his men dying round him like flies. 



170 IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE 

He carried his servant on his back for three days and three 
nights, and saved his Hfe. He's an honor to his country. 

GENTLEMAN. Oh, you make too much of it. 

LADY MiLLicENT {rising). Do I? I'm sorry to hear you say 
you think so. I'm sorry for any man who can think so. 
But it's of no importance what you think. I am to be in- 
troduced to Mr. Barwell, and he is to take me down to 
supper. Now I have kept my promise — keep yours — go. 
{He sits) I've had enough of this. I shall go to our 
hostess — she looks a vulgar, fat old woman, but she won't 
refuse me. I shall ask her to tell her brother to turn you 
out of the house. 

GENTLEMAN. You can't do that. 

LADY MILLICENT. Can't I? 

GENTLEMAN. No! 

LADY MILLICENT. Why not? 

GENTLEMAN. Bccausc I've to take you down to supper. I'm 
him. 

LADY MILLICENT. You'rc talking neither grammar nor sense. 

GENTLEMAN. I am the man who is giving this dreadful ball; 
you're quite right, it is rather dreadful — my sister — you're 
right again, she is rather vulgar and very fat — told me to 
find you and introduce myself, and take you down to 
supper. 

LADY MILLICENT. What? 

GENTLEMAN. I am Herbert Barwell. 

LADY MILLICENT. Why ou earth didn't you say so before? 

GENTLEMAN. Well 

LADY MILLICENT. Oh, Can you ever forgive me for the dread- 
ful things I've been saying? 

GENTLEMAN. You Said some nice things about me. May I 
say some nice things to you — some very nice things indeed? 

LADY MILLICENT. Don't you think it's time you took me 
down to have some 

GENTLEMAN. Of the bad champagne? 

LADY MILLICENT. I expcct it's ripping. 
[She takes his arm> and they go off laughing. 

CURTAIN. 



THE STEPMOTHER 

ARNOLD BENNETT 

Arnold Bennett was born in the Shelton district, in 
1867, not far from the "Five Towns" which he later cele- 
brated in his novels. Although he received his early edu- 
cation at Newcastle-under-Lyme, near to his birthplace, he 
matriculated at London University about 1885 and studied 
law in his father's office. In 1889 he left the "Five Towns" 
to establish himself definitely at London. It is probable 
that he received his first encouragement to write as a result 
of his work as London correspondent of a newspaper in his 
home district. He also won a prize for a contribution to a 
London paper, and in the early nineties he had seriously 
entered the field of literature as a contributor to the "Yellow 
Book." From 1895 on, Bennett turned "free-lance journal- 
ist, contributing all manner of articles to all manner of maga- 
zines. He attained very soon a position of some security 
and responsibility, as sub-editor and subsequently as 
editor of the woman's journal. Woman. ..." He also 
"acted, during this period, as a fluent and omniscient 
reviewer, a dramatic critic, a playwright and a publisher's 
reader." 

The years of apprenticeship were almost over. "Already 
he had decided to be a successful author, and, as he viewed 
it, the keeping of a journal was a most valuable part of the 
apprenticeship to that career." A passage from this journal 
(1899) reveals not only the extent of work accomplished, but 
throws light on the young author's perseverance and his 
pride in work achieved. "This year I have written 335,340 



172 THE STEPMOTHER 

words, grand total 224 articles and stories, and four install- 
ments of a serial called ' The Gates of Wrath ' have actually- 
been published; also my book of plays, 'Polite Farces.' 
My work included six or eight short stories not yet published, 
also the greater part of a 55,000 word serial . . . and the 
whole draft, 80,000 words, of my Staffordshire novel, 'Anna 
Tellwright.' " 

Arnold Bennett's most characteristic work is found in his 
novels, not in his plays. "The Stepmother", one of the 
earliest plays, is a slight trifle, better adapted to the stage, 
however, than some of his later efforts. In a Note prefacing 
the volume "Polite Farces ", he says: 

"The three farces comprising the present book have been 
written for drawing-room performance. Dumas 'pere, the 
father of modern drama, once said that all he needed was 
'four trestles, four boards, two actors, and a passion.' For 
myself I have dispensed with the trestles, the boards, and 
the passion, since none of these things is suitable for a 
dmwing-room." 

PLAYS 

*The Stepmother (1899) Milestones (1912) 
*A Good Woman (1899) (In collaboration with 

*A Question of Sex (1899) Edward Knoblauch) 

Cupid and Commonsense The Title (1918) 

(1908) Judith (1919) 

What the Public Wants Sacred and Profane Love 

(1909) (1920) 

The Honeymoon (1911) Body and Soul (1920) 

The Great Adventure (1911) 

All of Bennett's plays, with the exception of the "Polite 
Farces" ("The Stepmother", "A Good Woman", and "A 
Question of Sex"), are published separately by George H. 
Doran Company, New York. "Polite Farces", as a single 
volume, by the same publisher. 



THE STEPMOTHER 173 

References: F. J. Harvey Darton, "Arnold Bennett", 
Henry Holt and Company, New York; F. T. Cooper, "Some 
English Story Tellers", Holt; H. T. and W. Follett, "Some 
Modern Novelists", Holt; R. A. Scott-James, "Personality 
in Literature", Martin Seeker, London. 

Magazines: Bookman, vol. 34, p, 325, New York; Living 
Age, Series 8, vol. 4, p. 771, Boston. 



THE STEPMOTHER 



FARCE IN ONE ACT 
By ARNOLD BENNETT 



"The Stepmother" has not been produced professionally. 

Characters 

Cora Prout, a Popular Novelist and a Widow, 30 
, Adrian Prout, her Stepson, 20 
Thomas Gardner, a Doctor, 35 
Christine Feversham, Mrs, Front's Secretary, 20 



Reprinted from "Polite Farces," by permission of the publisher, George H. Doran 

Company, 



THE STEPMOTHER 

Scene. Mrs. ProuVs study: luxuriously furnished; large 
table in centre, upon which are a new novel, press-cuttings, and 
the usual apparatus of literary compositions. Christine is 
seated at the large table, ready for work, and awaiting the ad- 
vent of Mrs. Prout. To pass the time she picks up the novel, 
the leaves of which are not cut, and glances at a page here and 
there. Enter Mrs. Prout, hurried and preoccupied; the famous 
novelist is attired in a plain morning gown, which in the per- 
fection of its cut displays the beauty of her figure. She nods 
absently to Christine, and sits down in an armchair away from 
the table. 
CHRISTINE. Good morning, Mrs. Prout. I'm afraid you are 

still sleeping badly. 
MRS. PROUT. Do I look it, girl? 

CHRISTINE. You don't specially look it, Mrs. Prout. But 
I observe. You are my third novelist, and they have all 
taught me to observe, j Before I took up novelists I was 
with a Member of Parliament, and he never observed any- 
thing except five-line whips. 
MRS. PROUT. Really! Five-line whips! Oblige me by put- 
ting that down in Notebook No. 2. There will be an 
M.P. in that wretched thirty-thousand-word thing I've 
promised for the Christmas number of the New York Sur- 
priser and it might be useful. I might even make an 
epigram out of it. 
CHRISTINE. Yes, Mrs. Prout. (Writes.) 
MRS. PROUT. And what are your observations about me? 
CHRISTINE (while writing). Well, this is twice in three weeks 

that you've been here five minutes late in the morning. 
MRS. PROUT. Is that all? You don't think my stuff's falling 
off? 



178 THE STEPMOTHER 

CHRISTINE. Oh, no, Mrs. Prout! I A;now it's not falling off. 
I was just going to tell you. The butler's been in, and 
wished me to inform you that he begged to give notice. 
(Looking up) It seems that last night you ordered him to 
cut the .leaves of our new novel. (Patting book maternally) 
He said he just looked into it, and he thinks it's disgraceful 
to ask a respectable butler to cut the leaves of such a book. 
So he begs to give warning. Oh, no, Mrs. Prout, your 
stuff isn't falling off. 

MRS. PROUT (grimly). What did you say to him, girl? 

CHRISTINE. First I looked at him, and then I said, "Brown, 
you will probably be able to get a place on the reviewing 
staff of The Methodist Recorder." 

MRS. PROUT. Christine, one day, I really believe, you will 
come to employ a secretary of your own. 

CHRISTINE. I hope so, Mrs. Prout. But I intend to keep 
off the morbid introspection line. You do that so awfully 
well. I think I shall go in for smart dialogue, with mar- 
quises and country houses, and a touch of old-fashioned 
human nature at the bottom. It appears to me that's 
what's coming along very shortly. . . . Shall we begin, 
Mrs. Prout? 

MRS. PROUT (disinclined). Yes, I suppose so. (Clearing her 
throat) By the way, anything special in the press-cuttings? 

CHRISTINE. Nothing very special. (Fingering the pile of press- 
cuttings) The Morning Call says, "genius in every line." 

MRS. PROUT (blase). Hum! 

CHRISTINE. The Daily Reporter: "Cora Prout may be tal- 

1 ented — we should hesitate to deny it — but she is one of 
several of our leading novelists who should send themselves 
to a Board School in order to learn grammar." 

MRS. PROUT. Grammar again ! They must keep a grammar 
in the office! Personally I think its frightfully bad form 
to talk about grammar to a lady. But they never had any 
taste at the Reporter. Don't read me any more. Let us 
commence work, 

CHRISTINE. Which will you do, Mrs. Prout? (Consulting 



THE STEPMOTHER 179 

a diary of engagements) There's the short story for the 
Illustrated Monthly, six thousand, promised for next Sat- 
urday. There's the article on "Women's Diversions" for 
the British Review — they wrote for that yesterday. There's 
the serial that begins in the Sunday Daily Sentinel in Sep- 
tember — you've only done half the first instalment of that. 
And of course there's Heart Ache. 

MRS. PROUT. I think I'll go on with Heart Ache. I feel it 
coming. I'll do the short story for the Illustrated to- 
morrow. Where had I got to? 

CHRISTINE {choosing the correct notebook, reads). "The in- 
animate form of the patient lay like marble on the marble 
slab of the operating- table. 'The sponge. Nurse,' said 
the doctor, 'where is it?' " That's where you'd got to. 

MRS. PROUT. Yes. I remember. New line. " Isabel gazed 
at him imperturbably." New line. Quote-marks. " 'I 
fear. Doctor,' she remarked, 'that in a moment of forget- 
fulness you have sewn it up in our poor patient.' " New 
line. Quote-marks. " 'Damn!' said the doctor, 'so I 
have.' " Rather good, that, Christine, eh? 
[Christine writes in shorthand. 

CHRISTINE. Oh, Mrs. Prout, I think it's beautiful. So 
staccato and crisp. By the way, I forgot to tell you that 
there's a leader in the Daily Snail on that frightful anony- 
mous attack in the Forum against your medical accuracy. 
(Looking at Mrs. Prout, who is silent, but shows signs of agi- 
tation) You remember — "Medicine in Fiction." The 
Snail backs up the Forum for all it's worth. . . . Mrs. 
Prout, you are ill. I was sure you were. What can I get 
for you? 

MRS. PROUT (weakly wiping her eyes). Nonsense, Christine. 
I am a little unstrung, that is all. I want nothing. 

CHRISTINE. Your imagination is too much for you. 

MRS. PROUT (meekly). Perhaps so. 

CHRISTINE (firmly). But it isn't all due to an abnormal 
imagination. You've never been quite cheerful since you 
turned Mr. Adrian out. 

) 



180 THE STEPMOTHER 

MRS. PROUT. You forget yourself, Christine. 

CHRISTINE. I forget nothing, Mrs. Prout, myself least 
of all. Mr. Adrian is your dead husband's son, and 
you turned him out of your house, and now you're 
sorry. 

MRS. PROUT. Christine, you know perfectly well that I — 
er — requested him to go because he would insist on making 
love to you, which interfered with our work. Besides, it 
was not quite nice for a man to make love to the secretary 
of his stepmother. I wonder you are indelicate enough to 
refer to the matter. You should never have permitted his 
advances. 

CHRISTINE. I didn't permit them. I wasn't asked to. I 
tolerated them. I hadn't been secretary to a lady- 
novelist with a stepson before, and I wasn't quite sure 
what was included in the duties. I always like to give 
satisfaction. 

MRS. PROUT. You do givc satisfaction. Let that end the 
discussion. 

CHRISTINE (pouting; turning to her notebook; reads) . " ' Damn !' 
said the doctor, 'so I have.'" {Pause) " 'Damn!' said the 
doctor, 'so I have.'" 
[Pazise. 

MRS. PROUT. Christine, did you find out who was the author 
of that article on "Medicine in Fiction".? 

CHRISTINE. Is that what's bothering you, Mrs. Prout? Of 
course it was a nasty attack, but it is very unlike you to 
trouble about critics. 

MRS. PROUT. It has hurt me more than I can say. That was 
why I asked you to make a few discreet inquiries. 

CHRISTINE. I did ask at my club. 

MRS. PROUT. And what did they think there? 

CHRISTINE. They laughed at me, and said every one knew 
you had written it yourself just to keep the silly season 
alive, July being a sickly month for reputations. 

MRS. PROUT. What did you say to that? 

CHRISTINE. I should prefer not to repeat it. 



THE STEPMOTHER 181 

MRS. PROUT. Christine, I insist. Your modesty is becom- 
ing a disease. 

CHRISTINE. I said they were fools 

MRS. PROUT. A little abrupt, perhaps, but effective. 

CHRISTINE. Not to SCO that the grammar was different from 
ours. 

MRS. PROUT. Oh! that was what you said, was it? 

CHRISTINE. It was, and it settled them. 

MRS. PROUT (assuming a confidential air). Christine, I be- 
lieve I know who wrote that article. 

CHRISTINE. Who.f* 

MRS. PROUT. Dr. Gardner. 
[Bursts into tears. 

CHRISTINE {soothing her). But he lives on the floor below, 
in the very flat underneath this. 

MRS. PROUT (choking back her sohs). Yes. It is too 
dreadful. 

CHRISTINE. But he comes here nearly every evening. 

MRS. PROUT (sharply). Who told you that.? 

CHRISTINE. Now, Mrs. Prout, let me implore you to be 
calm. The butler told me. I didn't ask him, and as I 
cannot be expected to foretell what my employer's butler 
will say before he opens his mouth, I am not to blame. 
(Compresses her lips) Shall we continue? 

MRS. PROUT. Christine, do you think it was Dr. Gardner? 
I would give worlds to know. 

CHRISTINE (coldly analytic). Do you mean that you would 
give worlds to know that it was Dr. Gardner, or that it 
wasn't Dr. Gardner? Or would give worlds merely to 
know the author's name — no matter who he might be? 

MRS. PROUT (sighing). You are dreadfully unsympathetic 
this morning. 

CHRISTINE, I am placid, nothing else. Please recollect that 
when you engaged me you asked if you might rely on me 
to be placid, as your previous secretary, when you dictated 
the pathetic chapters, had wept so freely into her notebook 
that she couldn't transcribe her stuff, besides permanently 



182 THE STEPMOTHER 



injuring her eyesight. Since you ask my opinion as to 
Dr. Gardner being the author of this attack on you, I say 
that he isn't. Apart from the facts that he lives on the 
floor below, and that he is, so the butler says, a constant 
visitor in the evenings, there is the additional fact — a fact 
which I have several times observed for myself without 
the assistance of the butler — that he likes you. 

MRS. PROUT. You have noticed that. It is true. But the 
question is: Does he like me sufficiently not to attack my 
work in the public press? That is the point. The writer 
of that cruel article begins by saying that he has no per- 
sonal animus, and that he is actuated solely by an en- 
thusiasm for the cause of medicine and the medical pro- 
fession. 

CHRISTINE. You mean to infer, Mrs. Prout, that the author 
of the article might, as a man, like you, while as a doctor 
he despised you? 

MRS. PROUT (whimpering again). That is my suspicion. 

CHRISTINE. But Dr. Gardner does more than like you. He 
adores you. 

MRS. PROUT. He adores my talent, my genius, my fame, 
my wealth; but does he adore me? I am not an ordinary 
woman, and it is no use pretending that I am. I must 
think of these things. 

CHRISTINE. Neither is Dr. Gardner an ordinary doctor. 
His researches into toxicology 

MRS. PROUT. His researches are nothing to me. I wish he 
wasn't a doctor at all. 

CHRISTINE. Even doctors have their place in the world, 
Mrs. Prout. 

MRS. PROUT. They should not meddle with fiction, poking 
their noses 

CHRISTINE. But if fiction meddles with them? . . . You 
know fiction is really very meddlesome. It pokes its nose 
with great industry. 

MRS. PROUT (pulling herself together). Christine, you have 
never understood me. Let us continue. 



THE STEPMOTHER 183 

CHRISTINE (ivith an offended air, turning once more to her note- 
book). " 'Damn!' said the doctor, 'so I have.' " 

MRS. PROUT {coughing). New Hne. "A smile flashed across 

the lips of Isabel as she took up a glittering knife " 

{Gives a great sob) Oh, Christine! I'm sure Dr. Gardner 
wrote it. 

CHRISTINE. Very well, madam. He wrote it. We have at 
last settled something. {Mrs. Prout buries her face in her 
hands. Christine looks up, and after an instant's pause 
springs toward her) You poor dear! You are perfectly 
hysterical this morning. You must go and lie down for a 
little. A horizontal posture is what you need. 

MRS. PROUT. Perhaps you are right. I will leave you for 
an hour. {Totters to her feet) Take down this note for Dr. 
Gardner. He may call this morning. In fact, I rather 
think he will. "The answer to the question is 'No' " — 
capital N. 

CHRISTINE. Shall I sign it? 

MRS. PROUT. Yes; sign it "C. P." And if he comes, give 
it him yourself, and say that I can see no one. And, 
Christine, would you mind {crying gently again) seeing the 
b-b-butler, and try to reason him into a sensible attitude 
towards my n-n-novels. In my present state of health I 
couldn't stand any change. And he is so admirable at 
table. 

CHRISTINE. Shall I offer some compromise in our next 
novel? I might inquire what is the irreducible minimum 
of his demands. 

MRS. PROUT {faintly). Anything, anything, if he will stay. 

CHRISTINE {following Mrs. Prout to the door, and touching her 
shoulder caressingly). Try to sleep. 

[Exit Mrs. Prout. Christine whistles in a low tone as she 
returns meditatively to her seat. 

CHRISTINE {looking at notebook). "Isabel took up a glit- 
tering knife," did she? "The answer to the question is 
'No,'" with a capital N. "C. P." sounds like Carter 
Paterson. Now, as I have nothing to do, I think I will 



184 THE STEPMOTHER 

devote the morning to an article on "Hysteria in Lady- 
Novelists." Um! Ah! "The answer to the question is 
*No' " — capital N. What question? Can it be that the 
lily-white hand of the author of Heart Ache has . . . 
(knock) Come in. 
[Enter Dr. Gardner. 

GARDNER. Oh, good momiug. Miss Feversham. 

CHRISTINE. Good moming. Dr. Gardner. You seem sur- 
prised to see me here. Yet I am to be found in this chair 
daily at this hour. 

GARDNER. Not at all, not at all. I assure you I fully ex- 
pected to find both you and the chair. I also expected to 
find Mrs. Prout. 

CHRISTINE. Are you capable of interrupting our literary 
labours? We do not receive callers so early. Dr. Gardner. 
Which reminds me that I have several times remarked that 
this study ought not to have a door opening into the 
corridor. 

GARDNER. As for that, may I venture to offer the excuse 
that I had an appointment with Mrs. Prout? 

CHRISTINE. At what hour? She never makes appoint- 
ments before noon. 

GARDNER. I belicve she did say twelve o'clock. 

CHRISTINE {looking at her watch). And it is now twenty-five 
minutes to ten. Punctuality is a virtue. You may be 
said to have raised it to the dignity of a fine art. 

GARDNER. I wiU Wait. {Sits down) I trust that I do not 
interrupt? 

CHRISTINE. Yes, Doctor, I regret to say that you do. I 
was about to commence the composition of an article. 

GARDNER. UpOU what? 

CHRISTINE. Upon "Hysteria in Lady Novelists." It is my 

specialty. 
GARDNER. Surcly lady novelists are not hysterical? 
CHRISTINE. The increase of hysteria among that class of 

persons is one of the saddest features of the age. 
GARDNER. Dear me! {Enthusiastically) But I can tell you 



THE STEPMOTHER 185 

the name of one lady novelist who isn't hysterical — and 
that, perhaps, the greatest name of all — Mrs. Prout. 

CHRISTINE. Of course not, of course not. Doctor. Neverthe- 
less, Mrs. Prout is somewhat indisposed this morning. 

GARDNER. Cora — ill! What is it? Nothing serious.'' 

CHRISTINE. Rest assured. The merest slight indisposition. 
Just suflBcient to delay us an hour or two with our work. 
Nothing more. Nerves, you know. The imagination of 
a great artist. Dr. Gardner, is often too active, too stress- 
ful, for the frail physical organism. 

GARDNER. Ah! You regard Mrs. Prout as a great artist? 

CHRISTINE. Doctor — cvcu to ask such a question . . .! 
Do not you? 

GARDNER. I? To me she is unique. I say. Miss Fever- 
sham, were you ever in love? 

CHRISTINE. In love? I have had preferences. 

GARDNER. Among men? 

CHRISTINE, No; among boys. Recollect I am only twenty, 
though singularly precocious in shrewdness and calm 
judgment. 

GARDNER. Twenty? You amaze me. Miss Feversham. I 
have often been struck by your common sense and knowl- 
edge of the world. They would do credit to a woman of 
fifty. 

CHRISTINE. I am glad to notice that you do not stoop to 
offer me vulgar compliments about my face. 

GARDNER. I am incapable of such conduct. I esteem your 
mental qualities too highly. And so you have had your 
preferences among boys? 

CHRISTINE. Yes, I like to catch them from eighteen to 
twenty. They are so sweet and fresh then, like new milk. 
The employe of the Express Dairy Company who leaves me 
my half-pint at my lodgings each morning is a perfectly 
lovely dear. I adore him. 

GARDNER. He is ouc of your preferences, then? 

CHRISTINE. A preference among milkmen, of whom, as I 
change my lodgings frequently, I have known many. 



186 THE STEPMOTHER 



Then there is the postman — not a day more than eighteen, 
I am sure, though that is contrary to the regulations of. 
St. Martin's-le-Grand. Dr. Gardner, you should see my 
postman. When he brings them I can receive even re- 
jected articles with equanimity. 

GARDNER. I should be charmed to see him. But tell me, 
Miss Feversham, have you had no serious preferences? 

CHRISTINE. You secm interested in this question of prefer- 
ences. 

GARDNER. I am. 

CHRISTINE. Doctor, I will open my heart to you. It is 
conceivable you may be of use to me. You are on friendly 
terms with Adrian, and doubtless you know the history of 
his exit from this house. (Gardner nods, with a smile) 
Doctor, he and I aie passionately attached to each other. 
Our ages are precisely alike. It is a beautiful idyll, or 
rather it would be, if dear Mrs. Prout did not try to trans- 
form it into a tragedy. She has not only turned the 
darling boy out, but she has absolutely forbidden him the 
house. 

GARDNER. Doubtlcss shc had her reasons. 

CHRISTINE. Oh, I'm sure she had. Only, you see, her 
reasons aren't ours. Of course we could marry at once if 
we chose. I could easily keep Adrian. I do not, how- 
ever, wish to inconvenience dear Mrs. Prout. It is a 
mistake to quarrel with the rich relations of one's future 
husband. But I was thinking that perhaps you. Doctor, 
might persuade dear Mrs. Prout that my marriage to 
Adrian need not necessarily interfere with the performance 
of my duties as her secretary. 

GARDNER. Anything that I can do, Miss Feversham, you 
may rely on me doing. 

CHRISTINE. You are a dear. 

GARDNER. But why should you imagine that I have any 
influence with Mrs. Prout.'' 

CHRISTINE. I do not imagine; I know. It is my unerring 
insight over again, my faultless observation. Doctor, you 



THE STEPMOTHER 187 

did not begin to question me about love because you were 
interested in my love affairs, but because you were in- 
terested in your own, and couldn't keep off the subject. 
I read you like a book. You love Mrs. Prout, my dear 
Doctor. Therefore you have influence over her. No 
woman is uninfluenced by the man who loves her. 

GARDNER {laughing between self-satisfaction and self -conscious- 
ness). You have noticed that I admire Mrs. Prout? It 
appears that nothing escapes you. 

CHRISTINE. That is a trifle. The butler has noticed it. 

GARDNER. The butlcr! 

CHRISTINE. The butler. 

GARDNER {wltli abandon). Let him. Let the whole world 
notice. Miss Feversham, be it known that I love Mrs. 
Prout with passionate adoration. Before the day is out 
I shall either be her affianced bridegroom — or I shall be a 
dead man. 

CHRISTINE {leaning forward; in a low, tense voice). You pro- 
posed to her last night.'* 

GARDNER. I did. 

CHRISTINE. And you were to come for the answer this 
morning? 

GARDNER. Ycs. Can you not guess that I am eager — ex- 
cited? Can you not pardon me for thinking it is noon at 
twenty-five minutes to ten? Ah, Miss Feversham, if 
Adrian adores you with one-tenth of the fire with which I 
adore Mrs. Prout 

CHRISTINE. Stop, Doctor, I do not wish to be a burnt sac- 
rifice. Now let me ask you a question. You have seen 
that attack on Mrs. Prout, entitled "Medicine in 
Fiction", in this month's Forum. Do you know the 
author of it? 

GARDNER. I don't. Has it disturbed Mrs. Prout? 

CHRISTINE. It has. Did she not mention it to you? 

GARDNER. Not a word. If I did know the author of it, if 
I ever do know the author of it, I will tear him {fiercely) 
limb from limb. 



188 THE STEPMOTHER 

CHRISTINE. I trust you will chloroform him first. It will be 

horrid of you if you don't. 
GARDNER. I absolutely decline to chloroform him first. 

CHRISTINE. You mUSt. 
GARDNER. I WOn't. 

CHRISTINE. Never mind. Perhaps you will be dead. Re- 
member that you have promised to kill yourself to-day on 
a certain contingency. Should you really do it? Should 
you really put an end to your life if Mrs. Prout gave you 
a refusal? 

GARDNER. I swcar it. Existence would be valueless to 
me. 

CHRISTINE. By the way, Mrs. Prout told me that if you 
called I was to say that she could see no one. 

GARDNER. See no one! But she promised . . . 

CHRISTINE. However, she left a note. 

GARDNER {starting up). Give it me instantly. Why didn't 
you give it me before? 

CHRISTINE. I had no opportunity. Besides, I haven't 
transcribed it yet. It was dictated. 

GARDNER. Dictated? Are you sure? 

CHRISTINE (seriously). Oh, yes, she dictates everything. 

GARDNER. Well, Well, read it to me, read it to me. Quick, 
I say. 

CHRISTINE (turning over leaves rapidly). Here it is. Are 
you listening? 

GARDNER. Great Heaven ! 

CHRISTINE (reads from her shorthand note). "The answer to 
your question is " 

GARDNER. Go OU. 

CHRISTINE (drawing her breath first) . " Yes. — C. P." There ! 

I've saved your life for you. 
GARDNER. You have indeed, my dear girl. But I must see 

her. I must see my beloved Cora. 
CHRISTINE (taking his hand). Accept my advice. Doctor — 

the advice of a simple, artless girl. Do not attempt to see 

her to-day. There are seasons of emotion when a woman 



THE STEPMOTHER 189 

(stops) . . . Go downstairs and write to her, and then 
give the letter to me. 
[Pats him on the back. 

GARDNEE. I will, by Jove. Miss Feversham, you're a good 
sort. And as you've told me something, I'll tell you some- 
thing. Adrian is going to storm the castle to-day. 

CHRISTINE. Adrian! 

[A knock. Enter Adrian. 

ADRIAN. Since you command it, I enter. 

GARDNER. Let me pass, bold youth. 
[Exit Dr. Gardner hurriedly. 

ADRIAN {overcome by Gardner's haste). Why this avalanche? 
Has something happened suddenly? 

CHRISTINE. Several things have happened suddenly, Ad- 
rian, and several more will probably happen when your 
mamma discovers that you are defying her orders in this 
audacious manner. Why are you here? {Kisses him) 
You perfect duck! 

ADRIAN {gravely). I am not here. Miss Feversham 

CHRISTINE. " Miss Fcvcrsham " — and my kiss still warm on 
his lips! 

ADRIAN. I repeat, Miss Feversham, that I am not here. 
This {pointing to himself) is not I. It is merely a rather 
smart member of the staff of the Daily Snail, come to in- 
terview Cora Prout, the celebrated novehst. 

CHRISTINE. And I have kissed a Snail reporter. Ugh! 

ADRIAN. Impetuosity has ruined many women. 

CHRISTINE. It is a morning of calamities. {Assuming the 
secretarial pose) Your card, please. 

ADRIAN {handing card). With pleasure. 

CHRISTINE {taking card by the extreme corner, perusing it with 
disdain, and then dropping it on the floor). We never see 
interviewers in the morning. 

ADRIAN. Then I will call this afternoon. 

CHRISTINE. You must Write for an appointment. 

ADRIAN. Oh! I'll take my chances, thanks. 

CHRISTINE. We never give them: it is our rule. We have 



190 THE STEPMOTHER 

to be very particular. The fact is, we hate being inter- 
viewed, and we only submit to the process out of a respect- 
ful regard for the great and enlightened public. Any sort 
of notoriety, any suggestion of self-advertisement, is dis- 
tasteful to us. What do you wish to interview us about? 
If it's the new novel, we are absolutely mum. Accept that 
from me. 

ADRIAN. It isn't the new novel. The Snail wishes to know 
whether Mrs. Prout feels inclined to make any statement 
in reply to that article, "Medicine in Fiction", in the 
Forum. 

CHRISTINE. Oh, Adrian, do you know anything about that 
article? 

ADRIAN. Rather! I know all about it. 

CHRISTINE. You treasure! You invaluable darling! I will 
marry you to-morrow morning by special license 

ADRIAN. Recollect, it is a Snail reporter whom you are ad- 
dressing. Suppose I were to print that ! 

CHRISTINE. Just SO. You are prudence itself, while I, for 
the moment, happen to be a little — a little abnormal. I 
saved a man's life this morning, and it is apt to upset one's 
nerves. It is a dreadful thing to do — to save a man's life. 
And the consequences will be simply frightful for me. 
[Buries her face in her hands. 

ADRIAN. Christine (taking her hands), what are you raving 
about? You are not yourself. 

CHRISTINE. I wish I wasn't. (Looking up with forced calm) 
Adrian, there is a possibility of your being able to save me 
from the results of my horrible act, if only you will tell 
me the name of the author of that article in the Forum. 

ADRIAN (tenderly). Christine, you little know what you ask. 
But for you I will do anything. . . . Kiss me, my white 

lily. 

[She kisses him. 
CHRISTINE (whispers). Tell me. 

[He folds her in his arms. Enter Mrs. Prout, excitedly. 
MRS. PROUT (as she enters). Christine, that appalling butler 



THE STEPMOTHER 191 

has actually left the house . . . {Observing group) 
Heavens ! 

CHRISTINE (quietly disengaging herself). You seem a little 
better, Mrs. Prout. A person to interview you from the 
Daily Snail. [Pointing to Adrian. 

MRS. PROUT. Adrian! 

ADRIAN. Yes, mamma. 

MRS. PROUT {opening her lips to speak and then closing them). 
Sit down. 

ADRIAN. Certainly, Mamma. [Sits. 

MRS. PROUT. How dare you come here? 

ADRIAN. I don't know how, Mamma. 

[Picks up his card from the floor and hands it to her; then re- 
sumes his seat. 

MRS. PROUT {glancing at card). Pah! 

CHRISTINE. That's just what I told the person, Mrs. Prout. 
[Mrs. Prout burns her up with a glance. 

MRS. PROUT. You have, then, abandoned your medical 
studies, for which I had paid all the fees? 

ADRIAN. Yes, Mamma. You see, I was obliged to earn 
something at once. So I took to journalism. I am get- 
ting on quite nicely. The editor of the Snail says that I 
may review your next book. 

MRS. PROUT. Unnatural stepson, to review in cold blood 
the novel of your own stepmother! But this morning I 
am getting used to misfortunes. 

ADRIAN. It cuts me to the heart to hear you refer to any 
action of mine as a misfortune for you. Perhaps you would 
prefer that I should at once relieve you of my presence? 

MRS. PROUT. Decidedly, yes — that is, if Christine thinks she 
can do without the fifth act of that caress which I inter- 
rupted. 

CHRISTINE. The curtain was already falling, madam. 

MRS. PROUT. Very well. {To Adrian) Good-day. 

ADRIAN. As a stepson I retire. As the "special" of the 
Daily Snail I must insist on remaining. A "special" of 
the Daily Snail is incapable of being snubbed. He knows 



192 THE STEPMOTHER 

what he wants, and he gets it, or he ceases to be a " special " 
of the Daily Snail. 

MRS. PROUT. I esteem the press, and though I should prefer 
an existence of absolute privacy, I never refuse its de- 
mands. I sacrifice myself to my public, freely acknowl- 
edging that a great artist has no exclusive right to the 
details of his own daily life. A great artist belongs to the 
world. What is it you want, Mr. Snail? 

ADRIAN. I want to know whether you care to say anything 
in reply to that article on "Medicine in Fiction" in the 
Forum. 

MRS. PROUT {sinking back in despair). That article again! 
{Sitting up) Tell me — do you know the author? 

ADRIAN. I do. 

MRS. PROUT. His name! 

ADRIAN. He is a friend of mine. 

MRS. PROUT. His name! 

ADRIAN. I am informed that in writing it he was actuated 
by the highest motives. His desire was not only to make 
a little money, but to revenge himself against a person 
who had deeply injured him. He didn't know much about 
medicine, being only a student, and probably the larger 
part of his arguments could not be sustained, but he knew 
enough to make a show, and he made it. 

MRS. PROUT. His name! I insist. 

ADRIAN. Adrian Spout or Prout — I have a poor memory. . . . 

MRS. PROUT. Is it possible? 

CHRISTINE. Monster! 

ADRIAN. Need I defend myself. Mamma? Consider what 
you had done to me. You had devastated my young 
heart, which was just unfolding to its first passion. You 
had blighted the springtime of the exquisite creature 
{looking at Christine, who is moved by the feeling in his 
tones) — the exquisite creature who was dearer to me than 
all the world. In place of the luxury of my late father's 
house you offered me — the street. . . . 

CHRISTINE. Yes . . . and Gower Street. 



THE STEPMOTHER 193 

ADRIAN. You, who should have gently fostered and en- 
couraged the frail buds of my energy and intelligence — 
you cast me forth . . . 

CHRISTINE. Cast them forth. 

ADRIAN. Cast them forth, untimely plucked, to wither, and 
perhaps die, in the deserts of a great city. And for what? 
For what? 

CHRISTINE. Merely lest she should be deprived of my poor 
services. Ah! Mrs. Prout, can you wonder that Mr. 
Adrian should actively resent such conduct — you with 
your marvellous knowledge of human nature? 

MRS. PROUT. Adrian, did you really write it? 

ADRIAN. Why, of course. You seem rather pleased than 
otherwise. Mamma. 

MRS. PROUT {after cogitating). Ah! You didn't write it, 
really. You are just boasting. It is a plot, a plot! 

ADRIAN. I can prove that I wrote it, since you impugn my 
veracity. 

MRS. PROUT. How can you prove it? 

ADRIAN. By producing the cheque which I received from 
the Forum this very morning. 

MRS. PROUT. Produce it, and I will forgive all. 

ADRIAN {with a sign to Christine that he entirely fails to com- 
prehend the situation). I fly. It is in my humble attic, 
round the corner. Back in two minutes. 
[Exit Adrian. 

MRS. PROUT. Christine, did he really write it? 

CHRISTINE. Can you doubt his word? Was it for lying 
that you ejected the poor youth from this residence? 

MRS, PROUT. Ah ! If he did ! {Smiles) Of course Dr. Gard- 
ner has not called? 

CHRISTINE. Yes, he was in about twenty minutes ago. 

MRS. PROUT {agonised). Did you give him my note? 

CHRISTINE. No. 

MRS. PROUT. Thank Heaven! 

CHRISTINE. I had not copied it out, so I read it to him. 

MRS. PROUT. You read it to him? 



194 THE STEPMOTHER 

CHRISTINE. Yes; that seemed the obvious thing to do. 

MRS. PROUT {in black despair). All is over. 
[Sinks back. Enter Dr. Gardner hastily. 

GARDNER (excited). I was looking out of the window of my 
flat when I saw Adrian tear along the street. I said to 
myself, "A man, even a reporter, only runs like that when 
a doctor is required, and urgently required. Some one is 
ill, perhaps my darling Cora." So I flew upstairs. 

MRS. PROUT (with a shriek). Dr. Gardner! 

GARDNER. You are indeed ill, my beloved. (Approaching 
her) What is the matter.'* 

MRS. PROUT (waving him off). It is nothing, Doctor. Could 
you get me some salts.'* I have mislaid mine [Sighs. 

GARDNER. Salts! In an instant. 
[Exit Dr. Gardner. 

MRS. PROUT. Christine, you said you read my note to Dr. 
Gardner. 

CHRISTINE. Yes, Mrs. Prout. 

MRS. PROUT. His behaviour is singular in the extreme. He 
seems positively overjoyed, while the freedom of his en- 
dearing epithets What were the precise terms I 

used? Read me the note. 

CHRISTINE. Yes, Mrs. Prout. (Reads demurely) "The 
answer to your question is 'Yes,' " — with a capital N. 

MRS. PROUT. "Yes" with a capital N? 

CHRISTINE (calmly). I mean with a capital Y. 

[Christine and Mrs. Prout look steadily at each other. Then 
they both smile. Enter Dr. Gardner. 

GARDNER (handing the salts). You are sure you are not ill.'' 

MRS. PROUT (smiling at him radiantly). I am convinced of 
'i^. Christine, will you kindly reach me down the diction- 
ary from that shelf.'* 

[While Christine's back is turned Dr. Gardner gives, and 
Mrs. Prout returns, a passionate kiss. 

CHRISTINE (handing dictionary) . Here it is, Mrs. Prout. 

MRS. PROUT (after considting it). I thought I could not be 
mistaken. Christine, you have rendered me a service 



THE STEPMOTHER 195 

{regarding her affectionately) — a service for which I shall 
not forget to express my gratitude; but I am obliged to 
dismiss you instantly from my service. 

CHRISTINE. Dismiss me, madam? 

GARDNER. Cora, can you be so cruel? 

MRS. PROUT. Alas, yes! She has sinned the secretarial sin 
which is beyond forgiveness. She has misspelt. 

GARDNER. Impossible ! 

MRS. PROUT. It is too truc. 

GARDNER. Tell me the sad details. 

MRS. PROUT. She has been guilty of spelling "No" with 
a "Y." 

GARDNER. Dear me! And a word of one syllable, too! 
Miss Feversham, I should not have thought it of you. 
[Enter Adrian. 

ADRIAN {as he hands a cheque for Mrs. ProuVs inspection). 
Here again. Doctor? 

GARDNER. Ycs, and to stay. 

MRS. PROUT. Adrian, the Doctor and I are engaged to be 
married. And talking of mai-riage, you observe that girl 
there in the corner. Take her and marry her at the 
earliest convenient moment. She is no longer my 
secretary. 

ADRIAN. What! You consent? 

MRS. PROUT. I consent. 

ADRIAN. And you pardon my article? 

MRS. PROUT. No, my dear Adrian, I ignore it. Here, take 
your ill-gotten gains. {Returning cheque) They will bring 
you no good. And since they will bring you no good, I 
have decided to allow you the sum of five hundred pounds 
a year. You must have something. 

ADRIAN. Stepmother! 

CHRISTINE {advancing to take Mrs, ProuCs hand). Step- 
mother-in-law ! 

GARDNER. Cora, you are an angel. 

MRS. PROUT. Merely an artist, my dear Tom, merely an 
artist. I have the dramatic sense — that is all. 



196 THE STEPMOTHER 

ADRIAN. Your sense is more than dramatic, it is common; 

it is even horse. What about the Snail " special ", 

mummy? 
MRS. PROUT. My attitude is one of strict silence. 
ADRIAN. But I must go away with something. 
MRS. PROUT. Strict silence. The attack is beneath my 

notice. 
ADRIAN. But what can I say? 
CHRISTINE. Say that Mrs. Front's late secretary. Miss 

Feversham, having retired from her post, has already 

entered upon a career of original literary composition. 

That will be a nice newsy item, won't it? 
ADRIAN (taking out notebook). Rather! What is she at work 

on? 

CHRISTINE. Oh, well, I scarcely 

GARDNER. I know — "Hysteria in Lady Novelists." 
MRS. PROUT. What? 

GARDNER (to Christine). Didn't you tell me so? 
CHRISTINE. Of course I didn't, Doctor. What a shocking 

memory you have! It is worse than my spelling. 
GARDNER. Then what did you say? 
CHRISTINE. I said, "Generosity in Lady Novelists." 

CURTAIN 



ROCOCO 

GRANVILLE BARKER 

H. Granville Barker was born at London in 1877. He 
appears to have begun his stage career at an early age, when 
he became an actor in a provincial company. His first 
London appearance was in 1892. He subsequently acted 
with Lewis Waller, Ben Greet, and Mrs. Patrick Campbell, 
and participated in the productions of the Elizabethan 
Stage Society. Becoming identified later with the Stage 
Society, he produced and acted in a number of Bernard 
Shaw's early plays. In 1904 he undertook, together with 
J. E. Vedrenne, the management of the Court Theater, 
where he successfully experimented in a repertory scheme, 
producing many new plays by Shaw, St. John Hankin, 
Barrie and Galsworthy. He continued his managerial ac- 
tivities at the Duke of York's Theater, the Savoy — where his 
Shakespearian revivals were produced — the St. James, and 
the Kingsway. During the past few years Mr. Barker has 
adapted plays, written about the theater, and lectured, both 
in England and the United States. 

Granville Barker's plays are, in the best sense of the word, 
experiments in form. They are a good deal more than tech- 
nical feats, to be sure, but one feels that they are primarily 
quests after a newer and more flexible medium than that 
which the workers in the traditional form habitually use. 
"The Madras House ", for example, judged by the standards 
of Pinero, is hardly a play at all ; its artistic unity lies rather 
in the theme than in the actual plot. In "Waste", the 
theme again — more concrete than in "The Madras House" 
— dominates the form. "The Voysey Inheritance ", a study 
of upper middle-class English life, comes nearer to the tradi- 



198 ROCOCO 

tional dramatic form. It is Mr. Barker's most successful 

play. 

"Rococo " is the best of the short plays; it reveals the 
dramatist, as in the more ambitious works, as an artist 
in quest of the proper means of expression, the most effective 
medium for the dramatic presentation of human character 
and ideas. 

PLAYS 

The Weather Hen (1899) Waste (1909) 

(In collaboration with The Madras House (1910) 

Herbert Thomas) *Rococo (1912) 

The Marrying of Ann Leete The Harlequinade (1913) 

(1901) (In collaboration with 

Prunella (1904) Dion Clayton Calthrop) 

(In collaboration with Vote by Ballot (1914) 

Laurence Housman) Farewell to the Theatre 

The Voysey Inheritance (1916) 
(1905) 

"The Marrying of Ann Leete ", "Prunella ", "The Voysey 
Inheritance", "Waste", "The Madras House", and "The 
Harlequinade" are published separately by Little, Brown 
and Company, Boston; "The Marrying of Ann Leete", 
"The Voysey Inheritance", and "Waste", also in a single 
volume, by Little, Brown and Company; "Rococo", "Vote 
by Ballot", and "Farewell to the Theater" in a single 
volume only, as "Three Short Plays", by Little, Brown and 
Company. 

References: Granville Barker, Prefaces to his own edi- 
tions of "A Midsummer Night's Dream ", "Twelfth Night ", 
and "A Winter's Tale", Sidgwick and Jackson, London; 
and to "Three Plays of Maeterlinck", Gowans and Gray, 
London; William Archer and Granville Barker, "Schemes 
and Estimates for a National Theater ", Duffield and Com- 
pany, New York. 



ROCOCO 199 

Magazines: Bookman, July, 1914, London; The Forum, 
vol. xliv, p. 159, New York; Bookman, vol. xxxv, p. 195, 
New York; Fortnightly Review, vol. xcv, p. 60, and vol. c, 
p. 100, London; Nation, vol. xci, p. 19, and vol. xciv, p. 445, 
New York; Harper's Weekly, vol. Ivi, p. 6, New York; North 
American Review, vol. cxcv, p. 5720, New York; The Drama, 
No. 2, Chicago. 



ROCOCO 

A FARCE 
By GRANVILLE BARKER 



'Rococo" was first produced at London in 1911. 

Characters 
The Vicar 
Reginald, his nephew 
Mrs. Reginald 

Mrs. Underwood, the Vicar*s wife 
Miss Underwood, the Vicar's sister 
Mortimer Uglow, Reginald's father 



COPTBIGHT, 1917, BT GrANVILLE BaBKBB. 

Reprinted from "Three Short Plays ", published by Little, Brown and Company, 
by permission of the Paget Dramatic Agency. "Rococo" is fully protected by copy- 
right and must not be performed either by amateurs or professionals without written 
permission. For such permission, and for the "acting version," with full stage directions, 
apply to the Paget Dramatic Agency, 500 Fifth Ave., New York City. 



ROCOCO 

Do you know how ugly the drawing-room of an English vicar- 
age can he? Yes, I am aware of all that there should he ahout 
it; the old-world grace and charm of J ane-Austenism. One 
shoidd sit upon Chippendale and glimpse the grey Norman 
church-tower through the casement. But what of the pious foun- 
dations of a more industrial age, churches huilt in mid-nineteenth 
century and rather scamped in the huilding, dedicated to the 
Glory of God and the soul's health of some sweating and sweated 
urhan district? The Bishop would have a vicarage added, 
grumhled the church-donor. Well, then, consider his comfort a 
little, hut to the glory of the Vicar nothing need he done. And 
nothing was. The architect (this an added labour of hut little 
love to him) would give an ecclesiastical touch to the front porch, 
a pointed top to the front door, add some stained glass to the 
staircase window. But a mean house, a stuffy house, and the 
Vicar must indeed have fresh air in his soul if mean and stuffy 
doctrine was not to he generated there. 

The drawing-room would he the hest room, and not a had room 
in its way, if it weren't that its proportions were vile, as though 
it felt it wanted to he larger than it was, and if the window and 
the fireplace and the door didn't seem to he quarrelling as to which 
should he the most conspicuous. The fireplace wins. 

This particular one in this particular drawing-room is of 
yellow wood, stained and grained. It reaches not quite to the 
ceiling. It has a West Front air, if looking-glass may stand 
for windows; it is fretted, moreover, here and there, with little 
trefoil holes. It bears a full assault of the Vicar's wife's ideas 
of how to make the place "look nice." There is the clock, of 
course, which won't keep time; there are the vases which won't 
hold water; framed photographs, as many as can be crowded on 
the shelves; in every other crevice knickknacks. Then, if you 



204 ROCOCO 

stand, as the Vicar often stands, at this point of vantage you are 
conscious of the wall-paper of amber and blue with a frieze 
above it measuring off yard by yard a sort of desert scene, a 
mountain, a lake, three palm trees, two camels; and again; 
and again; until by the corner a camel and a palm tree are cut 
out. On the walls there are pictures, of course. Two of them 
convey to you in a vague and water-coloury sort of way that an 
English countryside is pretty. There is ^'Christ among the 
Doctors^', with a presentation brass plate on its frame; there is 
"Simply to Thy Cross I Cling." And there is an illuminated 
testimonial to the Vicar, a mark of affection and esteem from the 
flock he ministered to as senior curate. 

The furniture is either very heavy, stuffed, sprung, and 
tapestry-covered, or very light. There are quite a number of 
small tables (occasional-tables they are called), which should 
have four legs but have only three. There are several chairs, too, 
on which it would be unwise to sit down. 

In the centre of the room, beneath the hanging, pink-shaded, 
electric chandelier, is a mahogany monument, a large round 
table of the "pedestal" variety, and on it tower to a climax the 
vicarage symbols of gentility and culture. In the centre of this 
table, beneath a glass shade, an elaborate reproduction of some 
sixteenth-century Pieta {a little High Church, it is thought; but 
Art, for some reason, runs that tvay) . It stands on a Chinese 
silk mat, sent home by some exiled uncle. It is symmetrically 
surrounded by gift books, a photograph album, a tray of painted 
Indian figures (very jolly! another gift from the exiled uncle), 
and a whale's tooth. The whole affair is draped with a red em- 
broidered cloth. 

The window of the room, with so many sorts of curtains and 
blinds to it that one would think the Vicar hatched conspiracies 
here by night, admits but a blurring light, which the carpet 
(Brussels) reflects, toned to an ugly yellow. 

You really woidd not expect such a thing to be happening in 
such a place, but this carpet is at the moment the base of an ap- 
parently mortal struggle. The Vicar is undermost, his baldish 



ROCOCO 205 

head, when he tries to raise it, falls back and bumps. Kneeling 
on him, throttling his collar, is a hefty young man conscientiously 
out of temper, with scarlet face glowing against carrotty hair. 
His name is Reginald and he is (one regrets to add) the 
Vicar^s nephew, though it be only by marriage. The Vicar^s 
wife, fragile and fifty, is making pathetic attempts to pull 
him off. 

"Have you had enough?'' asks Reginald and grips the Vicar 
hard. 

"Oh, Reginald . . . be good," is all the Vicar's wife's 
appeal. 

Not two yards off a minor battle rages. Mrs. Reginald, com- 
ing up to reinforce, was intercepted by Miss Underwood, the 
Vicar's sister, on the same errand. The elder lady now has the 
younger pinned by the elbows and she emphasises this very 
handsome control of the situation by teeth-rattling shakes. 

"Cat . . . cat . . . cat!" gasps Mrs. Reginald, who is 
plump and flaxen and easily disarranged. 

Miss Underwood only shakes her again. "Til teach you 
manners, miss." 

"Oh, Reginald . . . do drop him," moans poor Mrs. Un- 
derwood. For this is really very bad for the Vicar. 

"Stick a pin into him, Mary," advises her sister-in-law. 
Whereat Mrs. Reginald yelps in her iron grasp, 

" Don t you dare . . . it's poisonous," and then, "Oh . . . 
if you weren't an old woman I'd have boxed your ears." 

Three violent shakes. "Would you? Would you? Would 
you'?" 

"I haven't got a pin, Carinthia," says Mrs. Underwood. 
She has conscientiously searched. 

"Pull his hair, then," commands Carinthia. 

At intervals, like a signal gun, Reginald repeats his query: 
"Have you had enough?" And the Vicar, though it is evident 
that he has, still, with some unsurrendering school-days' echo 
answering in his mind, will only gasp, " Most undignified . . . 
clergyman of the Church of England . . . your host, sir . . . 
ashamed of you . . . let me up at once." 



206 ROCOCO 

Mrs. Underwood has failed at the hair; she flaps her hands in 
despair. ''It's too short, Carinthia," she moans. 

Mrs. Reginald begins to sob pitifully. It is very painful to 
be tightly held by the elbows from behind. So Miss Underwood, 
with the neatest of tunsts and pushes, lodges her in a chair, and 
thus released herself, folds her arms and surveys the situation. 
"Box my ears, would you?'' is her postscript. 
MRS. REGINALD. Well . , . you boxcd father's. 
MISS UNDERWOOD. Where is your wretched fdther-in-law.'' 

[Her hawklike eye surveys the room for this unknown in vain. 
REGINALD {the proper interval having apparently elapsed). 

Have you had enough? 

[Dignified he cannot look, thus outstretched. The Vicar, 

therefore, assumes a mixed expression of saintliness and ob- 
stinacy, his next best resource. His poor wife moans 

again. . . . 
MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, plcasc, Reginald . . . the floor's so 

hard for him! 
REGINALD (a little anxious to have done toith it himself). Have 

you had enough? 
THE VICAR (quite supine). Do you consider this conduct be- 
coming a gentleman? 
MRS. UNDERWOOD, And . . . Simon! ... if the servants 

have heard . . . they must have heard. What will they 

think? 

[No, even this heart-breaking appeal falls flat. 
REGINALD. Say you've had enough and I'll let you up. 
THE VICAR {reduced to casuistry). It's not at all the sort of 

thing I ought to say. 
MRS. VNDERWOOD (so helpless) . Oh . . . I think you might 

say it, Simon, just for once. 
MISS UNDERWOOD {grim with the pride of her own victory). 

Say nothing of the sort, Simon ! 

[The Vicar has a burst of exasperation; for, after all, he is on 

the floor and being knelt on. 
THE VICAR. Confound it all, then, Carinthia, why don't you 

do something? 



ROCOCO 207 

[ [Carinthia casts a tdctical eye over Reginald. The Vicar 

' adds in parenthesis ... a human touch! . . . 

THE VICAR. Don't kneel there, you young fool, you'll break 
my watch! 

MISS UNDERWOOD. Wait till I get my breath. 

[But this prospect raises in Mrs. Underwood a perfect dithy- 
ramb of despair. 

MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, please, Carinthia . . . No . . . 
don't start again. Such a scandal ! I wonder everything's 
not broken. (So coaxingly to Reginald) Shall I say it for 
him? 

MRS. REGINALD (fat little bantam, as she smooths her feathers 
in the armchair). You make him say it, Reggie. 
[But now the servants are on poor Mrs. Underwood* s brain. 
Almost down to her knees she goes. 

MRS. UNDERWOOD. They'll be coming up to see what the 
noise is. Oh . . . Simon! 

[It does strike the Vicar that this would occasion considerable 
scandal in the parish. There are so few good excuses for being 
found lying on the carpet, your nephew kneeling threateningly 
on the top of you. So he makes up his mind to it and enun- 
ciates with musical charm; it might be a benediction. . . . j 

THE VICAR. I have had enough. 

REGINALD {in somc relief). That's all right. 

[He rises from the prostrate church militant; he even helps it 
rise. This pleasant family party then look at each other, 
and, truth to tell, they are all a little ashamed. 

MRS. UNDERWOOD (walking round the re-erected pillar of right- 
eousness). Oh, how dusty you are! 

M'iss UNDERWOOD. Ycs! (The normal Self Uprising) Room's 
not been swept this morning. 

[The Vicar, dusted, feels that a reign of moral law can now 
be resumed. He draws himself up to fully five foot six. 

THE VICAR. Now, sir, you will please apologise. 

REGINALD (looking very muscular). I shall not. 

[The Vicar drops the subject. Mrs. Reginald mutters and 
crows from the armchair. 



208 ROCOCO 

MRS. REGINALD. Ha . . . who began it.'' Black and blue 
lam! Miss Underwood can apologise . . . your precious 
sister can apologise. 

MISS UNDERWOOD {crushing if inconsequent). You're running 
to fat, Gladys. Where's my embroidery? 

MRS. UNDERWOOD. I put it safe, Carinthia. {She discloses 
it and then begins to pat and smooth the dishevelled room) 
Among relations too! One expects to quarrel sometimes 
... it can't be helped. But not fighting! Oh, I never 
did ... I feel so ashamed! 

MISS UNDERWOOD {Britannia-like). Nonsense, Mary. 

MRS. REGINALD. Nobody touchcd you. Aunt Mary. 

THE VICAR {after his eyes have wandered vaguely round). 
Where's your father, Reginald? 

REGINALD {quite uninterested. He is straightening his own tie 
and collar). I don't know. 

[In the little silence that follows there comes a voice from 
under the mahogany monument. It is a voice at once digni- 
fied and -pained, and the property of Reginald's father, whose 
name is Mortimer Uglow. And it says . . . 

THE VOICE. I am here. 

MRS. UNDERWOOD {who may be forgiven nerves). Oh, how 



uncanny 



REGINALD {stUl at Ms tie). Well, you can come out, father, 

it's quite safe. 
THE VOICE {most unexpectedly). I shall not. {And then more 

unexpectedly still) You can all leave the room. 
THE VICAR {who is generally resentful). Leave the room! 

whose room is it, mine or yours? Come out, Mortimer, 

and don't be a fool. 

[But there is only silence. Why will not Mr. Uglow come out? 

Must he be ratted for? Then Mrs. Underwood sees why. 

She points to an object on the floor. 
MRS. UNDERWOOD. Simou! 
THE VICAR. What is it? 

[Again, and this time as if to indicate some mystery, 

Mrs. Underwood points. The Vicar picks up the object. 



ROCOCO 209 

some disjection of the fight he thinks, and waves it 
mildly. 
THE VICAR. Well, where does it go? I wonder everything 

in the room's not been upset! 
MRS. UNDERWOOD. No, Simon, it's not a mat, it's his . . . 
[She concludes with an undeniable gesture, even a smile. The 
Vicar, sniffing a little, hands over the trophy. 
REGINALD (tts he vicws it). Oh, of course. 
MRS. REGINALD. Reggie, am I tidy at the back? 

[He tidies her at the hack — a meticulous matter of hooks and 
eyes and oh, his fingers are so big. Mrs. Underwood has 
taken a little hand-painted mirror from the mantelpiece, and 
this and the thing in question she places just without the 
screen of the falling tablecloth much as a devotee might place 
an offering at a shrine. But in Miss Underwood dwells no 
respect for persons. 
MISS UNDERWOOD. Now, sir, for Heaven's sake put on your 
wig and come out. 

{There emerges a hand that trembles with wrath; it retrieves 
the offerings; there follow bumping s into the tablecloth as of 
a head and elbows. 
THE VICAR. I must go and brush myself. 
MRS. UNDERWOOD. Simou, d'you think you could tell the 
maids that something fell over . . . they are such tat- 
tlers. It wouldn't be untrue. [It woiddnH. 
THE VICAR. I should scom to do so, Mary. If they ask me, 
I must make the best explanation I can. 
[The Vicar swims out. Mr. Mortimer Uglow, his wig as- 
sumed and hardly awry at all, emerges from beneath the table. 
He is a vindictive-looking little man. 
MRS. UNDERWOOD, You're not hurt, Mortimer, are you? 
[Mr. Uglow's only wound is in the dignity. That he cures 
by taking the situation oratorically in hand. 
MR. UGLOW. If we are to continue this family discussion 
and if Miss Underwood, whom it does not in the least 
concern, has not the decency to leave the room and if 
you, Mary, cannot request your sister-in-law to leave 



210 ROCOCO 

it, I must at least demand that she does not speak to 

me again. 

[Whoever else might be impressed, Miss Underwood is not. 

She does not even glance up from her embroidery. 
MISS UNDERWOOD. A good thing for you I hadn't my thimble 

on when I did it. 
MRS. UNDERWOOD. Cariutliia, I don't think you should have 

boxed Mortimer's ears . . . you know him so slightly. 
MISS UNDERWOOD. He Called me a Futile Female. I con- 
sidered it a suitable reply. 

[The echo of that epigram brings compensation to Mr. Uglow. 

He puffs his chest. 
MR. UGLOW. Your wife rallied to me, Reginald. I am much 

obliged to her . . . which is more than can be said of you. 
REGINALD. Well, you can't hit a woman. 
MR. UGLOW (bitingly). And she knows it. 

MISS UNDERWOOD. Pf ! 

[The sound conveys that she would tackle a regiment of men 

with her umbrella: and she would. 
REGINALD {apopUctic, but he has worked down to the waist). 

There's a hook gone. 
MRS. REGINALD. I thought so! Lacc torn? 
REGINALD. It doesn't show much. But I tackled Uncle 

Simon the minute he touched Gladys . . . that got my 

blood up all right. Don't you worry. We won. 

[This callously sporting summary is too much for Mrs. Un- 
derwood: she dissolves. 
MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, that such a thing should ever have 

happened in our house! . . . in my drawing-room ! ! . . . 

real blows! ! ! . . . 
MRS. REGINALD. Dou't cry, Auut Mary ... it wasn't your 

fault. 

[The Vicar returns, his hair and his countenance smoother. 

He adds his patting consolations to his poor wife's comfort. 
MRS. UNDERWOOD. And I was kicked on the shin. 
MRS. REGINALD. Say you'rc sorry, Reggie. 
THE VICAR. My dear Mary . . . don't cry. 



ROCOCO 211 

MRS. UNDERWOOD (clasping her beloved's arm). Simon did 
it . . . Reggie was throttling him black ... he couldn't 
help it. 

THE VICAR. I suggest that we show a more or less Christian 
spirit in letting bygones be bygones and endeavour to re- 
sume the discussion at the point where it ceased to be an 
amicable one. {His wife, her clasp 07i his coat, through her 
drying tears has found more trouble) Yes, there is a slight 
rent . . . never mind. 

[The family party now settles itself into what may have been 
more or less the situations from which they were roused to 
physical combat. Mr. Uglow secures a central place. 

MR. TJGLOw. My sister-in-law Jane had no right to bequeath 
the Vase ... it was not hers to bequeath. 
[That is the gage of battle. A legacy! What English family 
has not at some time shattered its mutual regard upon this 
iron rock. One notices now that all these good folk are in 
deepest mourning, on which the dust of combat stands up the 
more distinctly, as indeed it shoidd. 

MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, Mortimer, think if you'd been able 
to come to the funeral and this had all happened then . . . 
it might have done! 

MISS UNDERWOOD. But it didn't, Mary . . . control your- 
self. 

MR. UGLOW. My brother George wrote to me on his death- 
bed . . . {and then fiercely to the Vicar, as if this con- 
cerned his calling) ... on his death-bed, sir. I have 
the letter here. . . . 

THE VICAR. Yes, we've heard it. 

REGINALD. And you sent them a copy. 

[Mr. Uglow's hand always seems to tremble; this time it is 
with excitement as he has pulled the letter from his pocket-book. 

MR. UGLOW. Quiet, Reginald! Hear it again and pay at- 
tention. {They settle to a strained boredom) "The Rococo 
Vase presented to me by the Emperor of Germany" 
. . . Now there he's wrong. {The sound of his own reading 
has uplifted him: he condescends to them) They're German 



212 ROCOCO 

Emperors, not Emperors of Germany. But George was 
an inaccurate fellow. Reggie has the same trick . . . 
it's in the family. I haven't it. 

[He is returning to the letter. But the Vicar interposes, 
lamblike, ominous though. 

THE VICAR. I have not suggested on Mary's behalf ... I 
wish you would remember, Mortimer, that the position I 
take up in this matter, I take up purely on my wife's behalf. 
What have I to gain? 

REGINALD (clodhopping) . Well, you're her husband, aren't 
you? She'll leave things to you. And she's older than 
you are. 

THE VICAR. Reginald, you are most indelicate. (And then, 
really thinking it is true . . . ) I have forborne to de- 
mand an apology from you. . . . 

REGINALD. Becausc you wouldn't get it. 

MRS. UNDERWOOD (genuinely and generously accommodating). 
Oh, I don't want the vase ... I don't want anything! 

THE VICAR (he is gradually mounting the pulpit). Don't think 
of the vase, Mary. Think of the principle involved. 

MRS. UNDERWOOD. And you may die first, Simon. You're 
not strong, though you look it . . . all the colds you get 
. . . and nothing's ever the matter with me. 

MR. UGLOW (ignored . . . ignored!). Mary, how much 
longer am I to wait to read this letter? 

THE VICAR (ominously, ironically lamblike now). Quite so. 
Your brother is waiting patiently . . . and politely. 
Come, come; a Christian and a businesslike spirit! 
[Mr. Uglow's very breath has been taken to resume the reading 
of the letter, when on him . . . worse, on that tender top- 
knot of his . . . he finds Miss Underwood's hawklike eye. 
Its look passes through him, piercing Infinity as she says . . . 

MISS UNDERWOOD, Why not a skull-cap ... a sanitary 
skull cap? 

MR. UGLOW (with a minatory though fearful gasp). What's 
that? 

THE VICAR. Nothing, Mortimer. 



ROCOCO 213 

REGINALD. Somc people look for trouble! 

MISS UNDERWOOD {addressing the Infinite still). And those 

that it fits can wear it. 
THE VICAR (a little fearful himself. He is terrified of his sister, 

that's the truth. And well he may he). Let's have the 

letter, Mortimer. 
MISS UNDERWOOD. Or at least a little gum ... a little 

glue ... a little stickphast for decency's sake. 

[She stoings it to a beautiful rhythm. No, on the whole, Mr. 

Uglow will not join issue. 
MR. UGLOW. I trust that my dignity requires no vindication. 

Never mind ... I say nothing. (And with a forgiving 

air he returns at last to the letter) "The Rococo Vase pre- 
sented to me by the Emperor of Germany" ... or 

German Emperor. 
THE VICAR. Agreed. Don't cry, Mary. Well, here's a 

clean one. 

[Benevolently he hands her a handkerchief. 
MR. UGLOW. "On the occasion of my accompanying the 

mission." 
MISS UNDERWOOD. Missiou! 

[The word has touched a spot. 
THE VICAR. Not a real mission, Carinthia. 
MR. UGLOW. A perfectly real mission. A mission from the 

Chamber of Commerce at . , . Don't go on as if the 

world were made up of low church parsons and . . . and 

. . . their sisters! 

[As a convinced secularist behold him a perfect fighting cock. 
REGINALD (bored, but oh, so bored!) . Do get ahead, father. 
MR. UGLOW {with a flourish). "Mission et cetera." Here 

we are. "My dear wife must have the enjoyment" . . . 

{Again he condescends to them) Why he called her his dear 

wife I don't know. They hated each other like poison. 

But that was George all over . . . soft . . . never 

would face the truth. It's a family trait. You show signs 

of it, Mary. 
THE VICAR {soft and low). He was on his death-bed. 



214 ROCOCO 

REGINALD. Get Oil . . . father. 

MR. UGLOW. "My wife" . . . She wasn't his dear wife. 
What's the good of pretending it? . . . "must have the 
enjoyment of it while she Hves. At her death I desire it to 
be an heirloom for the family." (And he makes the last 
sentence tell, every word) There you are! 

THE VICAR {lamblike, ominous, ironic, persistent). You sit 
looking at Mary. His sister and yours. Is she a member 
of the family or not? 

MR. UGLOW (cocksure). Boys before girls . . . men be- 
before women. Don't argue that . . . it's the law. 
Titles and heirlooms ... all the same thing. 

MRS. UNDERWOOD (worm-womanlike, turning ever so little). 
Mortimer, it isn't as if we weren't giving you all the 
family things . . . the miniature and the bust of John 
Bright and grandmother's china and the big Shake- 
speare . . . 

MR. UGLOW. Giving them, Mary, giving them? 

THE VICAR. Surrendering them willingly, Mortimer. They 
have ornamented our house for years. 

MRS. REGINALD. It isn't as if you hadn't done pretty well 
out of Aunt Jane while she was alive! 

THE VICAR. Oh, delicacy, Gladys! And some regard for 
the truth! 

MRS. REGINALD (no nonscnsc about her). No, if we're talking 
business let's talk business. Her fifty pounds a year "more 
than paid you for keeping her, didn't it? Did it or 
didn't it? 

REGINALD (gloomily). She never ate anything tliat I could 
see. 

THE VICAR. She had a delicate appetite. It needed teas- 
ing ... I mean coaxing. Oh, dear, this is most un- 
pleasant ! 

REGINALD. Fifty pouud a year is nearly a pound a week, 
you know. 

THE VICAR. What about her clothes . . . what about her 
little holidays . . . what about the doctor . . . what 



ROCOCO 215 

about her temper to the last? {He summons the classics 
to clear the sordid air) Oh: De mortuis nil nisi bonum! 

MRS. UNDERWOOD. She was a great trouble with her meals, 
Reginald. 

MR. UGLOW (letting rip). She was a horrible woman. I dis- 
liked her more than any woman I've ever met. She 
brought George to bankruptcy. When he was trying to 
arrange with his creditors and she came into the room, her 
face would sour them ... I tell you, sour them. 

MRS. REGINALD (she sums it up). Well, Uncle Simon's a 
clergyman and can put up with unpleasant people. It 
suited them well enough to have her. You had the room. 
Aunt Mary, you can't deny that. And anyway she's 
dead now . . . poor Aunt Jane! (She throws this con- 
ventional verbal bone to Cerberus) And what with the 
things she has left you . . . ! What's to be done with 
her clothes.'' 

[Gladys and Mrs. Underwood suddenly face each other like 
tivo ladylike ghouls. 

MRS. UNDERWOOD. Well, you remember the mauve silk . . * 

THE VICAR. Mary, pray allow me. (Somehow his delicacy 
is shocked) The Poor. 

MRS. REGINALD (in violent protest). Not the mauve silk! 
Nor her black lace shawl! 

MISS UNDERWOOD (sJiooting it out). They will make soup. 
[It makes Air. Uglow jump, physically and mentally too. 

MR. UGLOW. What! 

MISS UNDERWOOD. The proceeds of their sale will make much 
needed soup . . . and blankets. (Again her gaze trans- 
fixes that wig and she addresses Eternity) No brain under 
it! . . . No wonder it's loose! No brain. 
[Mr. Uglow just manages to ignore it. 

REGINALD. Where is the beastly vase? I don't know that 
I want to inherit it. 

MR. UGLOW. Yes, may I ask for the second or third time 
to-day? . . . 

MISS UNDERWOOD. The third. 



216 ROCOCO 

MB. UGLOW (he screws a baleful glance at her). May I ask 
for the second or third time . . . 

REGINALD. It is the third time, father. 

MR. UGLOW (his own son, too!). Reginald, you have no tact. 
May I ask why the vase is not to be seen.? 

MISS UNDERWOOD (sharply). It's put away. 

MRS. REGINALD (as sharp as she. Never any nonsense about 
Gladys). Why? 

MR. UGLOW. Gladys . . . ignore that, please, Mary.? 

MRS. UNDERWOOD. Yes, Mortimer. 

MR. UGLOW. It has been chipped. 

THE VICAR. It has not been chipped. 

MR. UGLOW. If it has been chipped . . . 

THE VICAR. I say it has not been chipped. 

MR. UGLOW. If it had been chipped, sir ... I should have 
held you responsible! Produce it. 

[He is indeed very much of a man. A little more and he'll 
slap his chest. But the Vicar, lamblike, etc. . . . we can 
now add dangerous. . . . 

THE VICAR. Oh, no, we must not be ordered to produce it. 

MR. UGLOW (trumpet-toned). Produce it, Simon. 

THE VICAR. Neither must we be shouted at. 

MISS UNDERWOOD. . . . or bawled at. Bald at! Ha, ha! 
[And she taps her grey-haired parting with a thimbled finger 
to emphasise the pun. Mr. Uglow rises, too intent on his 
next impressive stroke even to notice it, or seem to. 

MR. UGLOW. Simon, if you do not instantly produce the vase 
I shall refuse to treat this any longer in a friendly way. I 
shall place the matter in the hands of my solicitors. 
[This, in any family — is it not the final threat? Mrs. Un- 
derwood is genuinely shocked. 

MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, Simon! 

THE VICAR. As a matter of principle, Mary. . . . 

REGINALD (impartially). What rot! 

MRS. UNDERWOOD. It was put away, I think, so that the 
sight of it might not rouse discussion , . . wasn't it, 
Simon? 



ROCOCO 217 

REGINALD. Well, we'vc had the discussion. Now get it out. 
THE viCAE (lamblike . . . etc.; add obstinate now) . It is my 

principle not to submit to dictation. If I were asked 

politely to produce it. . . . 
REGINALD. Ask him politely, father. 
MR. UGLOW (why shouldnt he have principles, too?). I don't 

think I can. To ask politely might be an admission of 

some right of his to detain the property. This matter will 

go further. I shall commit myself in nothing without 

legal advice. 
MRS. REGINALD. You get it out, Aunt Mary. 
MRS. UNDERWOOD (almost thankful to be helpless in the m.atter). 

I can't. I don't know where it is. 
MR. UGLOW (all the instinct for Law in him blazing). You 

don't . . . ! This is important. He has no right to 

keep it from you, Mary. I venture to think . . . 
THE VICAR. Husband and wife are one, Mortimer. 
MR. UGLOW. Not in Law. Don't you cram your religion 

down my throat. Not in Law any longer. We've im- 
proved all that. The married woman's property act! I 

venture to think. . . . 

[Miss Underwood has disappeared. Her comment is to slam 

the door, 
MRS. UNDERWOOD. I thiuk perhaps Carinthia has gone for 

it, Mortimer. 
MR. UGLOW (the case given him, he asks for costs, as it were). 

Then I object. ... I object most strongly to this 

woman knowing the whereabouts of a vase which you, 

Mary. . . . 
THE VICAR (a little of the mere layman peeping now). Mortimer, 

do not refer to my sister as "this woman." 
MR. UGLOW. Then treat my sister with the respect that is 

due to her, Simon. 

[They are face to face. 
THE VICAR. I hope I do, Mortimer. 
MR. UGLOW. And will you request Miss Underwood not to 

return to this room with or without the vase? 



218 ROCOCO 

THE VICAR. Why should I? 

MR. UGLOW. What has she to do with a family matter of 
mine? I make no comment, Mary, upon the way you 
allow yourself to be ousted from authority in your own 
house. It is not my place to comment upon it and I make 
none. I make no reference to the insults . . . the un- 
womanly insults that have been hurled at me by this 
Futile Female. . . . 

REGINALD (a remembered schoolmaster joJce. He feels not un- 
like one as he watches his two elders squared to each other). 
Apt alliteration's artful aid . . . what? 

MR. UGLOW. Don't interrupt. 

MRS. REGINALD. You're getting excited again, father. 

MR. UGLOW. I am not. 

MRS. REGINALD. Father! 

[There is one sure way to touch Mr. Uglow. She takes it. 
She points to his wig. 

MR. UGLOW. What? Well . . . where's a glass . . . 
where's a glass? 
[He goes to the mantelpiece mirror. His sister follows him. 

MRS. UNDERWOOD. We talked it over this morning, Mor- 
timer, and we agreed that I am of a yielding disposition 
and I said I should feel much safer if I did not even know 
where it was while you were in the house. 

MR. UGLOW (with every appropriate bitterness). And I your 
loving brother! 

THE VICAR (not to be outdone by Reginald in quotations) . A 
Uttle more than kin and less than kind. 

MR. UGLOW {his wig is straight). How dare you, Simon? A 
Uttle more than ten minutes ago I was struck . . . here 
in your house. How dare you quote poetry at me? 
[The Vicar feels he must pronounce on this. 

THE VICAR. I regret that Carinthia has a masterful nature. 
She is apt to take the law into her own hands. And I 
fear there is something about you, Mortimer, that invites 
violence. I can usually tell when she is going to be unruly; 
there's a peculiar twitching of her hands. If you had not 



ROCOCO 219 

been aggravating us all with your so-called arguments, 
I should have noticed it in time and . . . taken 
steps. 

MRS. UNDERWOOD. We're really very sorry, Mortimer. We 
can always . . . take steps. But . . . dear me ! . . . 
I was never so surprised in my life. You all seemed to go 
mad at once. It makes me hot now to think of it. 
[The truth about Carinthia is that she is sometimes thought to 
be a little off her head. It's a form of genius. 

THE VICAR. I shall have a headache to-morrow . . . my 
sermon day. 

[Mr. Uglow now begins to glow with a sense of coming victory. 
And he's not bad-natured, give him what he ivants. 

MR. UGLOW. Oh, no, you won't. More frightened than 
hurt! These things will happen . . . the normal gross- 
feeding man sees red, you know, sees red. Reggie as a 
small boy . . . quite uncontrollable! 

REGINALD, Well, I like that ! You howled out for help. 

THE VICAR {lamblike and only lamblike). I am willing to ob- 
literate the memory. 

MRS. REGINALD. I'm surc I'm black and blue . . . and 
more torn than I can see. 

MR. UGLOW. But what can you do when a woman forgets 
herself.'' I simply stepped aside ... I happen to value 
my dignity. 

[The door opens. Miss Underwood with the vase. She de- 
posits it on the mahogany table. It is two feet in height. It 
is lavishly blotched with gold and white and red. It has curves 
and crinkles. Its handles are bossy. My God, it is a Vase! 

MISS UNDERWOOD. There it is. 

RiR. UGLOW {with a victor s dignity). Thank you. Miss Un- 
derwood. {He puts up gold-rimmed glasses) Ah . . . 
pure Rococo! 

REGINALD. The Vi-Cocoa vase! 

MR. UGLOW. That's not funny, Reginald. 

REGINALD. Well ... I think it is. 

[The trophy before him, Mr. Uglow mellows. 



220 ROCOCO 

MR. UGLOW. Mary, you've often heard George tell us. The 

Emperor welcoming 'em . . . fine old fellow . . . 

speech in German . . . none of them understood it. 

Then at the end . . . Gentlemen, I raise my glass. Hock 

. . . hock . . . hock! 
REGINALD (ivho knows a German accent when he hears it). A 

little more spit in it. 
MR, UGLOW. Reginald, you're very vulgar. 
REGINALD. Is that Potsdam.? 

[The monstrosity has coloured views on it, one back, one 

front. 
MR. UGLOW. Yes . . . home of Friedrich der Grosse! A 

great nation. We can learn a lot from 'em ! 

[This was before the war. What he says of them now is un- 
printable. 
REGINALD. Yes. I supposc its' a jolly handsome piece of 

goods. Cost a lot. 
MR. UGLOW. Royal factory . . . built to imitate Sevres! 

[Apparently he would contemplate it for hours. But the 

Vicar . . . Lamblike, etc.; add insinuating now. 
THE VICAR. Well, Mortimer, here is the vase. Now where 

are we? 
MRS. REGINALD (really protesting for the first time). Oh . . . 

are we going to begin all over again! Why don't you sell 

it and share up? 
MRS. UNDERWOOD. Gladys, I don't think that would be quite 

nice. 

MRS. REGINALD. I cau't SCC why UOt. 

MR. UGLOW. Sell an heirloom ... it can't be done. 
REGINALD. Oh, ycs, it can. You and I together . . . cut 

off the entail . . . that's what it's called. It'd fetch 

twenty pounds at Christie's. 
MR. UGLOW (the sight of it has exalted him beyond reason). 
More . . . more! First class rococo. I shouldn't dream 

of it. 

[Miss Underwood has resumed her embroidery. She pulls a 

determined needle as she says. . . . 



ROCOCO 221 

MISS UNDERWOOD. I think Mary would have a share in the 
proceeds, wouldn't she? 

MR. UGLOW. I think not. 

THE VICAR. Why not, Mortimer? 

MR. UGLOW {with -fine detachment). Well, it's a point of law. 
I'm not quite sure . . . but let's consider it in Equity. 
{Not that he knows what on earth he means!) If I died . . . 
and Reginald died childless and Mary survived us . . . 
and it came to her? Then there would be our cousins the 
Bamfords as next inheritors. Could she by arrangement 
with them sell and . . . ? 

MRS. UNDERWOOD. I shouldn't like to sell it. It would 
seem like a slight on George . . . because he went 
bankrupt perhaps. And Jane always had it in her 
bedroom. 

MISS. UNDERWOOD {thimhling the determined needle through). 
Most unsuitable for a bedroom. 

MRS. UNDERWOOD {anxious to 'please). Didn't you suggest, 
Simon, that I might undertake not to leave it out of the 
family? 

THE VICAR {covering a weaJc spot). In private conversation 
with you, Mary . . . 

MR. UGLOW {most high and mighty, oh most!). I don't accept 
the suggestion. I don't accept it at all. 

THE VICAR {and now taking the legal line in his turn) . Let me 
point out to you, Mortimer, that there is nothing to pre- 
vent Mary's selling the vase for her own exclusive benefit. 

MR. UGLOW {his guard down) . Simon ! 

THE VICAR {satisfied to have touched him). Once again, I 
merely insist upon a point of principle. 

MR. UGLOW {but now flourishing his verbal sword) . And I 
insist ... let everybody understand it ... I insist 
that all thought of selling an heirloom is given up ! Regi- 
nald . . . Gladys, you are letting me be exceedingly 
upset. 

REGINALD. Well . . . shall I walk off with it? They 
couldn't stop me. 



222 ROCOCO 

[He lifts it up; and this simplest of solutions strikes them all 
stupent; except Miss Underwood, ivho glances under her 
bushy eyebrows. 

MISS UNDERWOOD. You'll drop it if you're not careful. 

MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, Reggie, you couldn't carry that to 
the station . . . everyone would stare at you. 

THE VICAR. I hope you would not be guilty of such an un- 
principled act. 

MRS. REGINALD. I wou't have it at home, Reg, so I tell you. 
One of the servants 'd be sure to ... ! (She sighs des- 
perately) Why not sell the thing? 

MR. UGLOW. Gladys, be silent. 

REGINALD (as he puts the vase down, a little nearer the edge of 
the table). It is a weight. 

[So they have argued high and argued loio and also argued 
round about it; they have argued in a full circle. And now 
there is a deadly calm. Mr. Uglow breaks it; his voice 
trembles a little as does his hand with its signet ring rattling 
on the table. 

MR. UGLOW. Then we are just where we started half an hour 
ago . . . are we, Simon? 

THE VICAR (lamblike in excelsis). Precisely, Mortimer. 

MR. UGLOW. I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. (He gazes at 
them with cool ferocity) Now let us all keep our 
tempers. 

THE VICAR. I hope I shall have no occasion to lose mine. 

MR. UGLOW. Nor I mine. 

[He seems not to move a muscle, but in some mysterious way 
his wig shifts: a sure sign. 

MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, Mortimer, you're going to get ex- 
cited. 

MR. UGLOW. I think not, Mary. I trust not. 

REGINALD (proffering real temptation). Father . . . come 
away and write a letter about it. 

MR. UGLOW (as his wrath swells). If I write a letter ... if 
my solicitors have to write a letter . . . there are 
people here who will regret this day. 



ROCOCO 223 

MRS. UNDERWOOD {trembling at the coming storm). Simon, 

I'd much sooner he took it . . . I'd much rather he took 

everything Jane left me. 
MR. UGLOW. Jane did not leave it to you, Mary. 
MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, Mortimer, she did try to leave it to 

me. 
MR. UGLOW (running up the scale of indignation) . She may 

have tried . . . but she did not succeed . . . because 

she could not . . . because she had no right to do so. 

(And reaching the summit) I am not in the least excited. 

[Suddenly Miss Underwood takes a shreivd hand in the game. 
MISS UNDERWOOD. Have you been to your lawyer? 
MB. UGLOW (swivelling round). What's that? 
MISS UGLOW. Have you asked your lawyer? 

[He has not. 
MR. UGLOW. Gladys, I will not answer her. I refuse to 

answer the . . . the . . . the female. 

[But he has funked the "futile." 
MRS. REGINALD (soothlng him). All right, father. 
MISS UNDERWOOD. He hasn't because he knows what his 

lawyer would say. Rot's what his lawyer would say ! 
MR. UGLOW (calling on the gods to protect this woman from him). 

Heaven knows I wish to discuss this calmly ! 
REGINALD. Aunt Mary, might I smoke? 
MISS UNDERWOOD. Not in the drawing-room. 
MRS. UNDERWOOD. No . . . uot in the drawing-room, 

please, Reginald. 
MR. UGLOW. You're not to go away, Reginald. 
REGINALD. Oh, wcU . . . hurry up. 

[Mr. Uglow looks at the Vicar. The Vicar is actually smiling. 

Can this mean defeat for the house of Uglow? Never. 
MR. UGLOW. Do I understand that on your wife's behalf 

you entirely refuse to own the validity of my brother 

George's letter . . . where is it? . . . I read you the 

passage written on his death-bed. 
THE VICAR (measured and confident. Victory gleams for him 

now). Why did he not mention the vase in his will? 



224 ^ ROCOCO 

MR. UGLOW. There were a great many things he did not 

mention in his will. 
THE VICAR. Was his widow aware of the letter? 
MR. UGLOW. You know she was. 
THE VICAR. Why did she not carry out what you think to 

have been her husband's intention? 
MR. UGLOW. Because she was a beast of a woman. 

[Mr. Uglow is getting the worst of it, his temper is slipping. 
MRS. UNDERWOOD. Mortimer, what language about the 

newly dead! 
THE VICAR. An heirloom in the family? 
MR. UGLOW. Quite so. 
THE VICAR. On what grounds do you maintain that George's 

intentions are not carried out when it is left to my wife? 

[And indeed, "Mr. Uglow is against the ropes ", so to speak. 
MISS UNDERWOOD, The man hasn't a wig to stand on. . . . 

I mean a leg. 
MR. UGLOW (pale with fury, hoarse with it, even pathetic in it) . 

Don't you speak to me ... I request you not to speak 

to me. 

[Reginald and Gladys quite seriously think this is bad for 

him. 
REGINALD. Look here, father, Aunt Mary will undertake not 

to let it go out of the family. Leave it at that. 
MRS. REGINALD. We don't Want the thing, father . . . the 

drawing-room's full already. 
MR. UGLOW (the pathos in him growing; he might flood the best 

Brussels with tears at any moment). It's not the vase. 

It's no longer the vase. It's the principle. 
MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, dou't, Mortimer . . . don't be 

like Simon. That's why I mustn't give in. It'll make it 

much more difficult if you start thinking of it like that. 
MISS UNDERWOOD {jpulUng and pushing that embroidery needle 

more grimly than ever). It's a principle in our family not 

to be bullied. 
MRS. REGINALD {in almost a vulgar tone, really). If she'd go 

and mind her own family's business! 



ROCOCO 225 

[The vicar knows that he has his Ugloivs on the run. Suavely 

he presses the advantage. 
THE VICAR. I am sorry to repeat myself, Mortimer, but the 

vase was left to Jane absolutely. It has been specifically 

left to Mary. She is under no obligation to keep it in the 

family. 
MR. UGLOW {control breaking). You'll get it, will you . . . 

you and your precious female sister? 
THE VICAR {quieter and quieter; that superior quietude). Oh, 

this is so unpleasant. 
MR. IJGLOW {control broken). Never! Never! ! . . . not if 

I beggar myself in law-suits. 
MISS UNDERWOOD {a suddcu and vicious jab). Who wants the 

hideous thing? 
MR. UGLOW {broken, all of him. In sheer hysterics. Tears 

starting from his eyes) . Hideous! You hear her? They'd 

sell it for what'd it would fetch. My brother George's 

rococo vase! An objet d'art et vertu ... an heirloom 

... a family record of public service! Have you no 

feelings, Mary? 
MRS. UNDERWOOD {dissolvcd). Oh, I'm very unhappy. 

[Again are Mr. Uglow and the Vicar breast to breast. 
THE VICAR. Don't make your sister cry, sir. 
MR. UGLOW. Make your sister bold her tongue, sir. She has 

no right in this discussion at all. Am I to be provoked and 

badgered by a Futile Female? 

[The Vicar and Mr. Uglow are intent on each other, the others 

are intent on them. No one notices that Miss Underwood's 

embroidery is very decidedly laid down and that her fingers 

begin to twitch. 
THE VICAR. How dare you suppose, Mortimer, that Mary 

and I would not respect the wishes of the dead? 
MR. UGLOW. It's nothing to do with you, either. 

[Miss Underwood has risen from her chair. This Gladys 

does notice. 
MRS. REGINALD, I Say . . , Unclc SimoD. 
THE VICAR. What is it? 



226 ROCOCO 

REGINALD. Look here. Uncle Simon, let Aunt Mary write a 

letter undertaking. . . . There's no need for all this 

row. . . 
MRS. UNDERWOOD. I will! I'll Undertake anything! 
THE VICAR (the Church on its militant dignity now). Keep 

calm, Mary. I am being much provoked, too. Keep 

calm. 
MR. UGLOW (stamping it out). He won't let her ... he 

and his sister ... he won't give way in anything. Why 

should I be reasonable? 
REGINALD. If she will undertake it, will you . . . ? 
MRS. REGINALD. Oh, Auut Mary, stop her! 

[In the precisest manner possible, judging her distance with 

care, aiming well and true. Miss Underwood has for the 

second time to-day, soundly boxed Mr. Uglow^s ear. He yells. 
MR. UGLOW. I say . . . I'm hurt. 
REGINALD. Look here now . . . not again! 
THE VICAR (he gets flustered. No ivonder). Carinthia! I 

should have taken steps! It is almost excusable. 
MR. UGLOW. I'm seriously hurt. 

MRS. REGINALD. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. 
MISS UNDERWOOD. Did you feel the thimble? 
MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, Carinthia, this is dreadful ! 
MR. UGLOW. I wish to preserve my dignity. 

[He backs out of her reach that he may the better do so. 
MISS UNDERWOOD. Your wig's crooked. 
MRS, REGINALD (rousing: though her well-pinched arms have 

lively recollections of half an hour ago). Don't you insult 

my father. 
MISS UNDERWOOD. Shall I put it straight? It'll be off 

again. 

[She advances, her eyes gleaming. To do . , . Heaven 

knows what! 
MR. UGLOW (still backing). Go away. 
REGINALD (who really doesn't fancy tackling the lady either). 

Why don't you keep her in hand? 
MR. UGLOW (backed as far as he can, and in terror). Simon, 



ROCOCO 227 

you're a cad and your sister's a mad cad. Take her away. 
[But this the Vicar will not endure. He has been called a cad, 
and that no English gentleman ivill stand, and a clergyman 
is a gentleman, sir. In ringing tones and with his finest 
gesture you hear him. "Get out of my house!" Mr. Uglow 
doubtless coidd reply more fittingly were it not that Miss Un- 
derwood still approaches. He is feebly forcible merely. 
"Don't you order me about," he quavers. What is he hut a 
fascinated rabbit before the terrible woman? The gentlemanly 
Vicar advances — "Get out before I put you out," he vocifer- 
ates — Englishman to the backbone. But that is Reginald's 
waited for excuse. "Oh, no, you don't," he says and bears 
down on the Vicar. Mrs. Underwood yelps in soft but agon- 
ized apprehension: "Oh, Simon, be carefid." Mr. Uglow 
has his hands up, not indeed in token of surrender, — though 
surrender to the virago poised at him he would, — but to shield 
his precious wig. 

"Mind my head, do," he yells; he ivill have it that it is his 
head. "Come away from my father," calls out Mrs. Regi- 
nald, stoutly clasping Miss Underwood from behind round 
that iron-corseted waist. Miss Underwood swivels round. 
"Don't you touch me. Miss," she snaps. But Gladys has 
weight and the two are toppling groundward while Reginald, 
one hand on the Vicar, one grabbing at Miss Underwood to 
protect his wife {"Stop it, do!" he shoids), is outbalanced. 
And the Vicar making still determinedly for Mr. Uglow, and 
Mr. Uglow, his wig securer, preparing to defy the Vicar, the 
melee is joined once more. Only Mrs. Underwood is so far 
safe. 

The fighters breathe hard and sway. They sway against the 
great mahogany table. The Rococo Vase totters; it falls; it 
is smashed to pieces. By a supreme effort the immediate 
authors of its destruction — linked together — contrive not to sit 
down among them. Mrs. Underwood is heard to breathe, 
"Oh . . . Thank goodness." 



JAMES AND JOHN 

GILBERT CANNAN 

Gilbert Cannan was born in 1884. He received his early 
education in Manchester. He later attended King's College, 
Cambridge, and was called to the Bar in 1908. He evidently 
practised very little or not at all, for the next year he became 
dramatic critic on The Star. 

Cannan's most significant work so far is found not in his 
plays, but in his novels. The plays are to be judged as ex- 
periments rather than the complete expression of the author's 
dra.natic intention. In a letter to the editor, written not 
long ago, he declares: "I must correct your impression that 
I was once interested in the drama. I think I have never 
really been interested in anything else, all my researches, 
however remote they may appear, having been made to that 
end. I have lately resumed dramatic criticism for the Lon- 
don Nation and before very long shall discard novels for 
plays." 

Cannan's small plays display a variety of technique and 
material indicating uncertainty on his part as to the direction 
his future dramatic activities will take. However, he ap- 
pears to consider his career as novelist at an end, as he 
recently declared that his essays in novel form were merely 
a preparation for his career as a dramatist. 

PLAYS 

*James and John (1910) Three (1913) 

Miles Dixon (1910) *Everybody's Husband 

*Mary's Wedding (1912) (1917) 

The Perfect Widow (1912) The Arbour of Refuge(1913) 

*A Short Way with Authors 
(1913) 



230 JAMES AND JOHN 

"James and John", "Miles Dixon", "Mary's Wedding", 
and "A Short Way with Authors" are pubhshed in a volume- 
"Four Plays", by Sidgwick and Jackson, London; "Every, 
body's Husband ", by B. W. Huebsch, New York. The plays 
originally included in "Four Plays" have recently appeared 
singly, pubhshed by LeRoy Phillips, Boston. 

References: Gilbert Cannan, "The Joy of the Theater", 
E. P. Dutton and Company, New York. 

Magazines: Current Opinion, vol. 69, p. 80, New York; 
The Dial, vol. 68, p. 173, New York; Theater Arts, January, 
1920, New York. 



JAMES AND JOHN 

A PLAY IN ONE ACT 



By gilbert CANNAN 



"James and John" was first produced at London in 1910 

Characters 

John Betts 
James Betts 
Mes. Betts 
Mr. Betts 

Scene: Their parlour. 



[Entebed in the Libkabt of Conghess on Jult 25, 1913. 
Copyright, 1920, by Le Roy Phillips. 

All rights reserved 

Reprinted by permission of the publisher, Le Roy Phillips 



JAMES AND JOHN 

It is half past nine of an evening and the scene is the parlour 
of a little house in a gaunt row of houses in a street in a London 
suburb. By the fireplace at the back James and John Belts are 
playing backgammon, the board on a little table between them. 
They are both grey. James has a beard. John is clean-shaven. 
John wears glasses. Both wear morning-coats and both have 
carpet slippers. James smxikes, John does not. John has a 
glass of whisky on the mantelpiece within reach: James is tee- 
total. They are absorbed in their game and pay no attention to 
their mother, a stout old lady who is sitting in her chair reading a 
novel, sleeping, and knitting. Her chair is by another Utile 
table on which the solitary lamp of the room is placed so as to 
cast its light on her book. She is directly in front of the fire so 
that her back is towards the audience. John is sitting with his 
back towards her. 

The room is ugly and Mid-Victorian. Its door is to the 
right. Its windows to the left. In the window is a stand of 
miserable-looking ferns and an india-rubber plant. 
JAMES (looking up, abruptly). Very nice. I think I shall 

gammon you, John. 
JOHN. H'm. 

[He rattles the dice furiously, seeing the game go against him. 
JOHN (trium'phantly) . I take you there and there . . . 
JAMES. We shall see. 

[Silence. 
MRS. BETTS. Did you say it was raining when you came in, 

John? 
JOHN (turning irritably) . I have said so four times. 

[Silence. They devote themselves to their game again. 
MRS. BETTS (plaintively, as though she knew full well that her 

remarks would fall on deaf ears. She lays down her book). 



234 JAMES AND JOHN 

This isn't a very interesting book. ... I don't think 
books are so interesting as they used to be . . . they all 
seem to be trying to be like real life. ... I must say I 
like to know who marries who . . . and I don't like 
stories about married life. ... I suppose the authors 
must be thinking of their own. . . . Depressing. . . . 
You haven't said how you like my new cap, Jamie. . . . 
You did say it was raining, John? (No answer — only a 
frenzied rattle of the dice) I don't think anything has hap- 
pened. . . . The next-door people have had trouble with 
the servant again. ... A thief this one. ... I wonder if 
it is raining, ... I wouldn't like it to be wet for him. . . . 
[James and John look at each other and James looks over at 
his mother. She is fumbling for her handkerchief, 

JOHN. Gammon. . . . 

[He rises and looks down at his brother in triumph. Each 
takes a little note-book from his pocket and makes a note of 
the game. 

JAMES. I still lead by two hundred and twenty-three 
games. . . . 

[Mrs. Belts is wiping her eyes and snuffling. John goes to 
her and pats her shoulder kindly. 

JOHN. Would you like a game, mamma .f* . . . 

MRS. BETTS. No — no-o-o ... I Couldn't — not to- 
night. . . . 

JAMES. I thought we had agreed not to talk of it nor to 
think of it. . . . 

MRS, BETTS. It — it is all very well for you boys to talk . . . 
b-b-but ... I can't help but remember ... all these 
years . . . 

JOHN. Shall Jamie read to you, mamma? 

MRS. BETTS. It — it was so — so dreadful . . . 

JAMES. Yes, yes, mamma. . . . But we agreed that we 
would . . . 

MRS. BETTS. It all comes back to me so. . . . The whole 
thing. ... I suppose they never talk of it at the bank 
now, Jamie . . . ? 



JAMES AND JOHN 235 

JAMES (exploding). I wish to God he had never lived to 

come back again . . . 
JOHN. Tssh! — Tssh! . . . 
JAMES. I say that he has ruined mamma's hfe, and your 

Ufe and mine. ... I say again that I wish to God he 

had never Hved to come back. . . . 
JOHN. Think of mamma, . . . 
MRS. BETTS. Your own father . . . 

[She weeps. 
JAMES. It is against my wish that he is allowed to come here 

at all. . . . 
JOHN. Do let us try to forget the whole affair until . . . 

until he comes. . . . Don't you think it would be better 

if you went to bed, mamma? 

[James has fallen to pacing up and down the room. 
MRS. BETTS. No; I must stay . . . to . . . to see him . . . 
JOHN. You must be brave, then . . . 
MRS. BETTS (making an effort and gulping down her sobs). 

Ye-yes. . . . (She takes John's hand and pats it, while she 

anxiously tries to watch James in his pacing) But, John 

. . . I'm afraid — afraid of Jamie. . . . 

[She says this almost in a whisper but James hears her. He 

stops by the fireplace and stands with his back to the fire and 

glares at his mother. 
JAMES. I am, I hope, a just man . . . 
JOHN. We have argued enough. . . . We must wait. , . . 

We can't have mamma breaking down before he comes. . . . 
JAMES. John, you're a soft fool. . . . This man has done 

us all an injury. . . . He has brought misery upon this 

house. . . . He has no other place to which to turn: 

for a while he may rest under our roof. ... Is that un- 
derstood? 
JOHN. Quite. . . . Can't you leave it alone? 
JAMES. I wish to make myself clearly understood. . . . 
JOHN. I think we both understand you . . . and you need 

not speak so loud. 
JAMES. There must be no sentiment and he must be made 



236 JAMES AND JOHN 

to understand the terms on which I have consented to 
receive him, . . . 

MRS. BETTS. We — wc must be kind, Jamie — we must be 
kind. . . . He was always a kind man . . . 

JAMES. Kind! . . . To treat you in the way he did — 
and you can call him kind. Oh! the foolishness of 
women. . . . 

MRS. BETTS. He was never a bad man. ... Is it raining, 
John? 
[John goes to the window and peeps out. 

JOHN. Yes, mamma, it is raining. 

MRS. BETTS. Oh! ... It isu't too late for one of you to 
meet him at the station . . . is it.^* 

JAMES. You know that that is impossible. ... It is 
enough that he is permitted to come here at all. ... It 
is my house. . . . The ordering of this affair is in my 
hands. . . . Let it be . . . 

MRS. BETTS. He has been punished enough for his sin, . . . 

JAMES. We have been punished. I have been punished. 
. . . Year after year I have been passed over and men 
younger than myself have been promoted. . , . For 
years I was made to feel that my continued presence in 
the bank was an act of charity. . . . For years I have 
felt rather than heard the miserable story whispered to 
every raw lad who came to the place . . . and suffered 
. . . because my father betrayed his trust. . . . And 
you say he was not a bad man . . . 

JOHN. Jamie — Jamie — 

[Mrs. Beits heats feebly with her hands against him. 

JAMES. Jamie! — Jamie! — Well enough for you, John — 
you were out of it. . . . 

[John folds his arms as though he realised the hopelessness of 
endeavouring to stem the stream of his brother's indignation, 
and to indicate that he also has suffered but is too much a man 
to talk about it. This goads James only to further indigna- 
tion. John mutters unintelligibly. 

JAMES. What do you say? What do you say? 



JAMES AND JOHN 237 

JOHN. I say that what's done is done and let the past bury 
its dead. 

JAMES. It is not dead. . . . 

MRS. BETTS. Don't quarrel — don't quarrel. I cannot bear 
it. . . . 

JAMES. Mother, we must understand each other — you, 
John, and I — we must see this thing as it is. . . . Set 
aside the fact that this man is our father and your husband. 
. . . We must see what he did coldly, dispassionately, 
and judge accordingly. 

JOHN. I read in a book that no man has the right to judge 
another man . . . 

JAMES. Facts are facts. . . . 

JOHN. We don't know what drove him to do what he 
did. . . . 

JAMES. We know — what we know. We know the injury 
that he has done to ourselves. We know that because 
our father — because our father . . . (Mrs. Belts now has 
her face in her handkerchief; James is for a moment stopped 
but stiffens himself) because our father robbed the clients 
of the branch of which he was manager in order to keep the 
women whom he had bought . . . 

JOHN. You . . . 

[James raises his hand. 

JAMES. I will end where I have begun. ... It is true that 
he was revered as an upright gentleman, that he gave large 
sums in charity, that he did much good for the poor of 
this district, that he did this, that, and the other thing 
which kept him conspicuous as a righteous man. . . . 
We know that he was an excellent man of business and that 
the directors gave him the opportunity to escape. . . . 
There is that to his credit that he had the courage to face 
the consequences of his actions. . . . But even in that 
he had no thought for us, to whom rather than to himself 
his thoughts should have turned. . . . We know only 
too well the shame and disgrace of the arrest, the infamous 
revelations, the position irretrievably lost. . . . We 



238 JAMES AND JOHN 

know — you and I, John — we know the ruin that it has 
been to us. . . . We have seen other men of our own 
age fulfill their lives . . . 

JOHN. Will you cease? 

JAMES. We know that we have been chained here, you and 
I, to rot and rot . . . men wasted . . . without pride 
of home or pride of work. . . . We have sat here year 
in, year out, waiting, waiting . . . for nothing . . . 
knowing that nothing could ever come to us. . . . 

MRS. BETTS. 0-O-oh. . . . 

JAMES. We have suffered enough, I say, and if now that he 
has served his punishment and is free we take him under 
our roof again, to live here in this town, with us whom he 
has so — has so — so wrecked, in this town where he is still 
infamous . . . then that which is only now whispered of 
of us will be common talk. . . . We shall be lower than 
we have ever been and lose all that we have. . . . That 
is all. 

[He takes a pipe from his pocket, fills it vnth tobacco, lights 
it, and stalks out of the room. Mrs. Belts sobs quietly for a 
little. 

MRS. BETTS. John, dear — John ... 

JOHN (without moving). Yes, mother? 

MRS. BETTS. He was never a bad man. : 

JOHN. No . . . mother. 

MRS. BETTS. It must havc been bitter for Jamie . . . 

JOHN. Yes, mother, it has not been . . . easy. 

MRS. BETTS. He was always a kind man . . . always. 
... I don't understand — I never shall understand what 
made him do . . . do . . . what he did. . . . He 
... he used to be so fond of children. . . . You don't 
think hardly of him, John? . . . 

JOHN. Not — not for a long time now, mother. 

MRS. BETTS. I never shall understand what made him to 
. . . because — because he — he never really turned from 
me ... I should have known if — if he had done that. 
. . . Do you understand, John? 



JAMES AND JOHN 239 

JOHN. I am trying, mother 

MRS. BETTS. He was sometimes impatient with me . . . 
and . . . and I was a fooHsh woman. . . . Such a clever 
man he was. . . . But he never turned from me . , . 

JOHN. No 

MRS. BETTS. I remember now . . . often . . . when he 
told me. . . . How kind he was . . . and gentle. . . . 
He had been ill and worried for a long time, and then one 
day he came home and sat without a word all through the 
evening. ... It was raining then. . . . About ten 
o'clock . . . {John is sitting with his head in his hands 
on the sofa between the fire and the window) about ten o'clock 
... he came and kissed me, and told me to go to bed. 
Then he went out. ... I do not know where he went, 
but he came back wet through, covered with mud, and his 
coat was all torn. ... I was awake when he came back, 
but he spoke no word to me. . . . He came to bed and 
lay trembling and cold. ... I took his hand. . . . 
He shook and he was very cold. . . . He — he turned to 
me like a child and sobbed, sobbed. . . . Then, dear, 
he told me what he had done. . . . He told me that 
. . . that he had tried — tried to do away with himself 
. . . and — and could not. . . . He never asked me to 
forgive him. . . . He told me how the directors had 
asked him to go away to avoid prosecution. . . . He 
said that he must bear his punishment. . . . He is not 
a bad man, John. . . . Men and women are such strange 
creatures . . . there is never any knowing what they 
will do . . . 

JOHN. You want him to come back, mother? 

MRS. BETTS. Why, ycs. . . . Where else should he go? . . . 

JOHN. You know, mother . . . Jamie wanted to be mar- 
ried . . . 

MRS. BETTS. Oh ! ycs — yes — yes. . . . Poor boy. . . . 

JOHN. We're men. It has been a long time. We're old 
men . . . now . . . 
[John mends the fire and takes his whisky and soda. 



240 JAMES AND JOHN 

MRS. BETTS. John, dear . . . {John turns from poking the 
fire) I would like him to have his old chair that he used 
to sit in . . . and his old slippers . . . and there's 
an old pipe that he had — in my room . . . you know . . . 

JOHN. Very well. . . . 

[John goes out. Mrs. Beits sniffs and dries her eyes. She 
takes up her book, reads it for a little, then lays it down, takes 
her knitting, plies her needles for a little, then lays that down. 
She iixes her spectacles and looks anxiously at the clock on 
the mantelpiece. It has an aggressively loud tick. Then she 
looks towards the window and, rising slowly to her feet, shuffles 
across, and looks out. James returns and finds her there. 

JAMES (sternly). I think you should sit quietly and calm 
yourself. 

MRS. BETTS (meekly). Yes, Jamie. 
[She shuffles back to her chair. 

JAMES. Would you like me to read to you? 

MRS. BETTS. Please, Jamie. 

[James goes to the little dwarf bookcase in the recess by the 
fireplace and takes down a book. He moves the table with 
the backgammon hoard, and draws up his chair to the right 
side of the fireplace, and then sits so as to have the light of 
the lamp on his book. 

JAMES (reading — ^' Pickwick, ^^ Chap, xxxii). "There is a re- 
pose about Lant Street, in the Borough, which sheds a 
gentle melancholy upon the soul. There are always a good 
many houses to let in the street; " 

MRS. BETTS. Like our street. 

JAMES. "It is a by-street and its dulness is soothing. A 
house in Lant Street would not come within the denomina- 
tion of a first-rate residence, in the strict acceptation of 
the term; but it is a most desirable spot nevertheless. If 
a man wished to abstract himself from the world — to re- 
move himself from within reach of temptation — to place 
himself beyond the possibility of any inducement to look 
out of the window — he should by all means go to Lant 
Street. 



JAMES AND JOHN 241 

"Mr. Bob Sawyer embellished one side of the fire in his 
first-floor front, early on the evening for which he had in- 
vited Mr. Pickwick: and Mr. Ben Allen the other. The 
preparations for the visitors appeared to be completed. 
The umbrellas in the passage had been heaped into a little 
corner outside the best parlour door, the bonnet and shawl 
of the landlady's servant had been removed from the 
bannisters: there were not more than two pairs of pattens 
on the street door mat, and a kitchen candle, with a very 
long snuff, burnt cheerfully on the ledge of the staircase 
window. " Are you listening.? 

MRS. BETTS. Yes, dear. 

JAMES. "Mr. Bob Sawyer had himself purchased the spirits 
at a wine vaults in High Street and had returned home pre- 
ceding the bearer thereof, to preclude the possibility of 
their delivery at the wrong house. The punch was ready 

made in a saucepan in the bedroom: " 

[The door is thrown open and John comes staggering in with a 
great chair which he places on the left side of the fireplace. 
He takes a pair of red leather slippers from his pockets and 
places them in front of the fire to warm. From another 
pocket he produces a pipe and an old tin of tobacco and lays 
them on the mantelpiece. James stops in his reading and 
scowls. The old lady starts up in her seat and watches 
John's movements intently. John takes not the slightest 
notice of James but goes out of the room again. James opens 
his mouth to speak but decides to go on reading as though 
nothing had happened. 

JAMES. "Notwithstanding the highly satisfactory nature of 
all these arrangements, there was a cloud on the counte- 
nance of Mr. Bob Sawyer as he sat by the fireside. There 
was a sympathising expression too in the features of Mr. 
Ben Allen, as he gazed intently on the coals: and a tone 
of melancholy in his voice as he said, after a long silence: 
" 'Well, it is unlucky that she should have taken it into 
her head to turn sour, just on this occasion. She might 
at least have waited till to-morrow.' " 



242 JAMES AND JOHN 

[John returns with a glass, a decanter of whisky, and a jug of 
water. These he places on the table by his mother s side. She 
looks up at him gratefully. John, a little ostentatiously, takes 
a book and sits on the sofa. James shuts " Pickuxick" and 
remains gazing into the fire. They sit in silence for some time. 

MRS. BETTS. Is the clock right, John? 

JOHN (looking at his watch) . A little fast. ... I told Jane 
she might go to bed. I thought it better. 

MRS. BETTS. Yes 

[John is conscious that James is scrutinising him narrowly, 
and becomes a little uneasy. He sits so that the chair he has 
brought is between himself and his brother. He can see his 
mother from this position. They sit again in silence for some 
time. 

MRS. BETTS. There was a funeral in the street to-day. Quite 
a grand affair. . . . (Silence) There have been quite a 
number of deaths in the district lately. . . . (Silence) 
They go on having babies, though ... I wonder why 
, . . (Silence) I suppose everything happens for the 
best. . . . (Her prattle becomes intolerable to James, who 
springs to his feet and walks furiously up and down the room. 
He subsides finally, having scared her into silence, and they 
sit mum while the aggressive clock tick-ticks, and faint noises 
from the street come into the room — the sound of wheels on 
cobblestones, of whistling boys, of a street-brawl. Then comes 
the boom of a great distant clock striking ten) That's the 
Town Hall. When you hear it so clearly as that it means 
rain. . . . 

[Silence again. The bell of the house is heard to tinkle. 
John leaps to his feet and goes from the room. Mrs. Belts 
starts up trembling and fearful. James sits bolt upright and 
stern in his chair. They both turn and watch the door. John 
returns alone. 

JOHN. Only the post. 

JAMES. Anything for me? 

JOHN. No; for me. . . . 

[He reads his letter and throws it in the fire. James and Mrs. 



JAMES AND JOHN 243 

Belts subside into their former attitudes. John returns to 
the sofa and takes up his book again. 

MRS. BETTS. Who was it from, John? 

JOHN. It was nothing of any consequence. 
[They relapse into silence. 

JAMES. It is past your bed-time, mother. (Mrs. Betts takes 
no notice) It is past ten o'clock mother. . . . 

MRS. BETTS. I know. . . . {They are silent again. James 
falls to plucking his beard, and Mrs. Betts to watching him) 
How Hke you are to your father, James ! . . . I suppose 
that is why you could never get on together. . . . 
{James winces, but ignores the remark. 

JOHN. I think, mother, if we agreed not to talk it would be 
easier for all of us. . . . 

MRS, BETTS. Very well, John . . . only — I — couldn't bear 
the silence. . . . 
[James opens ^^ Pickwick" again and pretends to be absorbed. 

JOHN. If you would read, Jamie . . . 

JAMES. She does not listen . . . {Mrs. Betts has caught the 
sound of something outside the house. She turns and looks, 
half in fear, half in eagerness, towards the window. She lifts 
her hand and seems to point in that direction. The house bell 
is heard again. John looks up, sees her agitation, and comes 
to soothe her. He moves towards the door, and has reached it 
when James shakes himself and holds up a hand) Stop! 
{John turns) I will go. 

JOHN. I beg your pardon. I will go. 

[He opens the door and goes out. James assumes a com- 
manding attitude by the fireplace. Mrs. Betts turns and 

■ watches the door. She hears murmurs of voices, and, rising 
to her feet, begins to shuffle towards the door. 

JAMES {without looking at her; in a firm, quiet voice). Mother — 
sit down. {He never takes his eyes from the door. Mrs. 
Betts stands turning piteously between his command and her 
instinctive inclination. Then slowly she returns and sub- 
sides into her chair, but never lakes her eyes from the door. 
Mrs. Betts begins to whimper) Tssh ! Tssh ! 



244 JAMES AND JOHN 

[The door slowly opens and John comes in, grave, solemn. 
He holds the door open and presently Mr. Beits comes in. 
He is a big man, but a broken and a wretched; and yet there 
is a fine dignity in him. He stands by the door for some 
moments, his eyes fixed on his wife. He comes towards her 
slowly as though he were afraid, were not sure; that breaks in 
him, and he stumbles towards her and kisses her. 

BETTS. Wife . . . 

[She breaks into a little moaning cry, fondles, and kisses his 
hand. John comes and stands behind them. Mr. Beits 
turns from his wife to James and holds out his hand. James 
bows stiffly, and for a moment there is silence. The old an- 
tagonism leaps in both. 

JAMES {with stiff' dignity). You are welcome, sir. . . . 
[Mr. Belts stretches to his fidl height and bows with a dignity 
no less stiff than that of his son. James stands cold, while 
the other three are grouped together. Mrs. Belts tugs at her 
husband's hand. 

MRS. BETTS. Your chair, dear . . . John brought it down 
for you. . . . 

[Mr. Belts moves and sits in the chair by the fireplace. James 
waits for a little and then, without a word, sits in his chair. 
John brings up a chair and sits between his mother and father, 
nearer to his mother. They sit so in awkward silence, during 
which Mr. Belts turns his eyes from one to another of his fam- 
ily. James alone does not look at his father, but studiously 
away from him. John turns and mixes a glass of whisky 
and water for his father. This the old man takes gladly. He 
is reminded that he is cold by this attention, and shivers. He 
holds out a hand towards the blazing fire, then finds James 
looking at it vindictively and withdraws it hastily. 

JOHN. Your slippers are there. . . . {Mr. Belts takes off 
his boots and gives them to John, who takes them out of the 
room) Will you . . . smoke? 

MB. BETTS. Thank you. {He takes his old pipe and tobacco 
and lights, looking at James the while. He blows out a cloud 
of smoke gratefully. He thrusts out a leg towards the fire) 



JAMES AND JOHN 245 

The value of tobacco is best appreciated when it is the 
last you possess and there is no chance of getting more. 
. . . Bismarck said that . . . 

MRS. BETTS (who has been weeping quietly) . I think — I think 
I must go to — to bed. {She rises to her feet and shuffles 
slowly over to her husband. She bends over him and kisses 
him and loith her weak old hands pats his cheek) I — I hope 
you are not wet, dear. ... It must be raining ter- 
ribly. . . . 

[She shuffles over to James, kisses him, and John sees her to 
the door, then comes back and sits in her chair. Mr. Belts has 
watched his wife with burning eyes as she moved. 

MR. BETTS. How long.'' How long? 

JAMES {idly). It is six months since she was out of doors. 
. . . It is almost six years since she has been well enough 
to stay away from . . . from home. . . . 
[Mr. Belts draws the back of his hand over his eyes. 

JOHN. Be just, James, be just. 

JAMES {in the same hard monotone). It is twelve years since 
we came to this house in this melancholy street. ... In 
this room she has sat, day in, day out, year in, year out. 
. . . Day by day we have set out, I for the bank, John 
there for his office. . . . Year by year we have known 
that there was nothing to be done . . . that we must 
sacrifice everything to her. . . . We have known that. 
.... We have known that we could bring her nothing, 
that she could bring us nothing. . . . There she sat . . . 
[Mr. Belts sits loith boived head, offering no protest. 

JOHN. Be just, James, be just. . . . She has been waiting 
for this day . . . 

JAMES {ignoring him). We have known that such an ex- 
istence was futile . . . sterile. . . . We have all been 
. . . prisoners. 

JOHN. Shame on you . . . 

JAMES. I have told you in my letter the terms on which I 
bid you welcome to my house. . . . What have you to 
say? 



246 JAMES AND JOHN 

[Mr. Belts looks at John, then to James. Their eyes meet 
and for a moment they are man to man, enmity between them, 
the man judging and the man being judged. A little nervous 
laugh escapes from Mr. Betts. He puts up his hand to the 
place where his wife kissed him and caressed his face, and his 
eyes follow her slow path to the door. He shrugs, seems to 
shrink. He flings up his hands. 

MB. BETTS. Nothing. . . . There is nothing to say. . . . 
We are all so ... so old . . . 

[There is a silence. The clock ticks more wickedly than ever. 
James and John sit with bowed heads. 

JOHN {to his father). Shall I show you your room? 

MR. BETTS. Thank you, John. 

[James rises, goes to the door, and opens it. As John and Mr. 
Betts reach the door, James holds out his hand to his father. 

JAMES. Good night — father. 

MR. BETTS. Good night, James. 

[John and Mr. Betts go out. James puts out the light and 
follows. 

CURTAIN 



i 



THE SNOW MAN 

LAURENCE HOUSMAN 

Laurence Housman is not a professional dramatist. Al- 
though he has written many plays he is not to be classed 
with the playwright whose business it is to supply the stage 
regularly with effective pieces. Born in 1867, he has turned 
his hand to poetry, fiction, translation, and the drama, while 
he is well known as an illustrator and a lecturer on social 
subjects. His best known plays — "Prunella", written in 
collaboration with Granville Barker, and "The Chinese 
Lantern" — belong to the realm of fancy; they are not only 
effective plays, they are genuine literature. Of late years 
Mr. Housman has written a number of one-act plays, in 
verse and prose, on mythical and pseudo-historical subjects, 
and some based upon modern subjects. 

Laurence Housman is gifted with a fine sense of the the- 
ater; as an "outsider" he still clings to the notion that a 
good play need not necessarily be written in poor English. 

PLAYS 

Bethlehem (1902) *As Good as Gold (1916) 

Prunella (1906) *The Snow Man (1916) 

(In collaboration with *Bird in Hand (1916) 

Granville Barker) *Nazareth (1916) 

The Chinese Lantern (1908) *The Return of Alcestis 
Lysistrata (1910) (1916) 

*A Likely Story (1910) *Apollo in Hades (1920) 

*The Lord of the Harvest *TheDeathof Alcestis (1920) 

(1910) *The Doom of Admetus 
Pains and Penalties (1911) (1920) 

Alice in Ganderland (1911) *The Christmas Tree (1920) 



248 THE SNOW MAN 

"Bethlehem" is published by Macmillan Company, New 
York; "Prunella" by Little, Brown and Company, Boston; 
"The Chinese Lantern", "As Good as Gold", "A Likely 
Story", "The Snow Man", "The Lord of the Harvest", 
"Bird in Hand", "Nazareth", "The Return of Alcestis", 
separately, by Samuel French, New York; "Apollo in Hades ", 
"The Death of Alcestis", and "The Doom of Admetus" in 
one volume entitled "The Wheel", by Samuel French; 
"Pains and Penalties" by Sidgwick and Jackson, London; 
"Lysistrata" by The Woman's Press, London; and "The 
Christmas Tree" in The Drama magazine, Chicago, Decem- 
ber, 1920. 

Reference: Literary Supplement, New York Evening Post, 
May 8, 1920. 



THE SNOW MAN 

A PLAY IN ONE ACT 



By LAURENCE HOUSMAN 



"The Snow Man" has not been professionally produced. 

Characters 

Joan, A 'peasant woman 

Mary Ann 1 „ i -u 

- , V Her children 

Matthew Mark J 

Jaspar, Her husband 
The Snow Man 



CoPTHiGHT, 1916, BY Laurence Housman. 
All rights reserved. 

Reprinted by permission of the author. 

Caution. Amateurs and Professionals are hereby warned that " The Snow Man ", 
being fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States, is subject to royalty, 
and any one presenting the play without the consent of the author or his authorized 
agent, will be liable to the penalties by law provided. Application for the right to pro- 
duce "The Snow Man" must be made to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th Street, New 
York City. 



THE SNOW MAN 

Scene. A poor peasant dwelling, barely furnished with ar- 
ticles of the roughest description, a trestle-table, two benches, — 
a large one serving as a window-seat, and a smaller one standing 
by the hearth, — a wooden chair, a spinning ivheel, a large bread 
pan, a shell containing household crockery, and on the inner wall 
of the ingle a few pots and pans hanging on the wall. The room 
is wide and loiv; to the left is a deep hooded fireplace with con- 
taining walls on either side of it, — to one side a bread oven, to 
the other a cubby -bed with doors; opposite to the fireplace is a 
door leading to the woodshed. The house door is at the back, 
rather to the right; to its left a long loiv ivindow extends almost to 
a line with the fireplace. In the right hand corner stands a 
large chest. The roof is of heavy beams gray with smoke, and 
between them shows an inner surface of thatch. The walls are 
of blue plaster marked by mildew, with patches here and there 
where the plaster has peeled off. It is winter and daylight is 
drawing on. Outside the world is white with snow. A 
peasant-woman moves to and fro with quick dogged pace. The 
pace of a hard worker tired bid always pushed for time. She 
takes black bread out of the oven, and puts the remainder into 
the bread-pan. Then she takes down the garments from before 
the fire, presses them with a heavy iron, and pids them away in 
the chest. While crossing the room to and fro she economizes 
her time, never going empty-handed. She puts milk to warm 
on the fire, and gets down two small mugs from a shelf. She also 
gets from the cubby-bed two night garments, and hangs them to 
warm over the bench by the hearth. JVhile she is thus engaged, 
children's voices are heard oidside, laughing and shouting. The 
woman, absorbed in her work, pays no attention. Two small 
romping figures occasionally pass the window. Presently they 
begin to sing. 



252 THE SNOW MAN 

CHILDREN. Here we have a snow man, a snow man, a snow 
man! 
Oh, where does he come from, and what shall be his name? 
He says his name is no man, no man, no man! 
And nowhere and nowhere the land from which he came. 

(Now again) 

Oh, why did you come here, oh, snow man, oh, snow man? 
And will you now a friend be, or will you be a foe? 
"Oh, whether I a friend am, or whether I'm a foeman, 
It's here I mean to stay now, until I have to go!" 

{Now again) 

But what should you go for, oh, snow man, oh, snow man? 
And why would you leave us, when home lies at hand? 
"Oh, when the sun calls me, then I can wait for no man, 
But back I must go again, to my own land ! " 
And now we've made him, he'll have to stay, 
Ha! Ha! Ha! He can't get away. 

[The door hursts open, the two children run in: Matthew 
Mark and Mary Ann. 

MARY. Oh, mother, come and look at our snow man. 

MATTHEW. Mother, do look at him. 

MARY. When we began 

A-building him, we didn't ever know 

How big he'd get to be — he seemed to grow 

All by himself! 

MATTHEW. Mother, do look! 

JOAN. There, there! 

It's "look," "look," "look," all day! 
(She speaks in a good-humored scolding tone which the chil- 
dren seem not in the least afraid of. She goes and looks out) 
Well, I declare, 

You've done a silly thing — made 'im to stand 
Right in the door ! — with no room either 'and 
For folks to get by. 



THE SNOW MAN 253 

MATTHEW. Yah ! 

MARY. Yah! Ah, ha! That's why. 

MATTHEW. We didn't want to let no folk get by 
To steal our muvver! 

{He rubs against her) 

JOAN. Here, and what d'yer mean 

Getting yourself all wet like this? You've been 
And clammed yourself, — you too. Now off you go! 
Take all those things off! One can't ever know 
What children will be up to next. Come here! 

(Catches hold of Matthew) 
Now you undress yourself. 

{To Mary) 
You get in there 

Into the warm. Stand still, stand still, I say, 
And put this round yer. Oh, so that's the way 
You do when I ain't looking? All day long 
You're up to mischief. Always something wrong 
Soon as my back is turned. That heap o' snow 
How long's that to stay there, I'd like to know? 
Here, take your milk, and there's a bit o' bread 
For both on yer. Don't want it? Ah, it's bed 
You'd best be off to! There, put your mug down! 
Now come and get into your nighty-gown. 
Ah, you sweet thing! Well, kiss your mother then! 
But you mind what I say — no more snow men 
To-morrow ! 
[Crosses the room. 

MARY. Mother — Mother — will there be 
Anyone here to-morrow? Shan't we see 
Someone? 

JOAN. See someone? 

MARY. I mean, won't there no 

Man come with a spade and clear away the snow? 
Last year one come. 

JOAN. That was your father, — he 

Haven't been near since, and where he be 



254 THE SNOW MAN 

God alone knows. Here! Don't fill your 'ead 

With silly fancies ! You get on to bed. 

[She goes out into the woodshed. 
MATTHEW. Say ! Say ! She's gone ! come along, Mary Ann 

And hav© another look at our snow man. 
(They run across to the window) 

Snow man! Snow man! 
MARY. It's no good, he don't hear, he's gone to sleep. 

(Re-enter Joan) 
JOAN. Ah, what are you up to there? Back you go, quick. 

Or else you'll get the rod! (They skip back to the fireplace) 

Now you kneel down and say your prayers. "Pray 

God" 

[The two children kneel at bench with their backs to the fire. 

CHILDREN. "Pray God" 

JOAN (as she moves about folding up clothes, etc.). "Pray God 

make Baba good" 

CHILDREN. Pray God make Baba good. 
JOAN. "Give Baba bread." 
CHILDREN. Give Baba bread. 

JOAN. " Give all the hungry food" 

CHILDREN. Give all the hungry food. 

JOAN. "Peace to the dead." [Crosses herself. 

CHILDREN. Peace to the dead. 

[Joan stands lost in reverie and speaks unconsciously by rote. 
JOAN. "God bless" — [She turns and looks out. 
CHILDREN. God blcss — [They wait to be prompted. 
MATTHEW. Say, muvver, shall we pray for the snow man 

too? Shall us? Shall us? 
JOAN (still musing). Nay, nay! You leave the snow man 

out! He knows his way — he knows his way. 
j brother j 
CHILDREN. Bless mother, \ Y kind friends all about, 

[ sister J 

Bring Dada home, and leave the snow man out. Amen. 

[Joan stands lost in her own -thoughts. The children creep 

behind her toward the window. 



THE SNOW MAN 255 

MARY. Good-night, snow man! 
MATTH E w. Good-ni ght ! 

[They approach Joan. 
MARY. Good-night, mother! 
JOAN. Good-night, darhng! 
MATTHEW. Night, mother. 
JOAN. Night-night, my dear, — night-night! 

[Mary Ann goes and opens cubby-bed and begins to climb in. 

Matthew stops outside. 
MATTHEW. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, 

Guard the bed that I lie on; 

Four corners to my bed. 

Four angels at my head. 

One to watch, and one to pray, 

And two to 

JOAN. There, you get in! you've prayed enough to-night. 

[She goes to close doors. 
MARY. Don't shut it up yet, mother, leave a light. 
JOAN. Just you be quiet. Be thankful you lie warm, 

There's some as won't to-night. I can hear storm 

A-coming on. 

[She leaves door of cubby-bed half open. 
MATTHEW. Sing, mother, will ye sing? 
JOAN {putting away the bread and the milk-mugs and folding 

up the strewn garments; starts to sing in a dull toneless voice 

with little tune). 

There comes a man to a maid, and said. 

All in a year and a day 

"So thou be mine now let us be wed 

Out of the world and away." 

Said the maid to the man, " If I thee wed 

Out of the world and away, 
Bide 'e at home, and find me bread 

Just for a year and a day." 



256 THE SNOW MAN 

They hadn't been wed, the maid and the man, 

For a year, for a year and a day. 
Before a want in his heart began, 

To be out to the world and away. 

"Oh, wife, there's come a call to my blood, 

To be out in the world and away, 
By road and river, by field and flood. 

Just for a year and a day." 

Out and away to the world he went. 

By road and river and sea. 
Oh, man of the road, is your heart content? 

Will 'e never come back to me? 

{She goes and looks at the children and sees that they are 
asleep) 

Oh, man of the road, is your heart content? 
Will 'e never come back to me? 

{While she sings, the firelight dies down and the light of the 

candle loses its warmth. Outside is a sound of rising wind, 

and the soft lash of snow against the pane. She goes and 

looks out of windoiv) 

Ah, there be storm, black blast with icy breath! 

The night's gone colder now, aye cold like death. 

Cold! 

{She shivers — three knocks are struck on the door) 

Who be there? Who is it? Whence do 'e come? 

{Another knock, very faint) 

Have you no word? What, are ye deaf and dumb? Or — 

dead? 
{Knock. The light burns blue. She opens the door. Pause. 
Slowly the snow man enters and moves across the room to- 
ward the bed) 

No, stop ! Not there, not there ! 

[She interposes and lays hold of him. A cold rigour seizes 
her. 



THE SNOW MAN 257 

SNOW MAN. Why do you touch me? 

JOAN. Why do you come here.'* Who are you? Answer! 

{He again moves forward) No, you don't go there! You 

shan't, you shan't come nigh of 'em. 
SNOW MAN. Take care! My touch is — cold! 
JOAN. You think I'm feard o' that? 

You think them eyes as I be looking at 

Have any fear for me, or shape of dread? 

Worse that what Hfe 'ave? 

{With a sort of exultation) 

Why, if I were dead! 

[Pause. The snow man lifts his hand and points toward 

the bed. Joan sees his meaning. 
SNOW MAN. If you were dead? 
JOAN. No, no, I say you He ! 

My Httle 'uns? God wouldn't let 'em die. 

'A wouldn't have the heart, 'a wouldn't have the heart. 
SNOW MAN. Yet there's a heart, 
Now quick to beat. 

Which, this same night. 
Must lose its heat. 

To give strength to a lame man's feet. 
JOAN. A lame man? 
SNOW MAN. Gray-headed, bent. 

He scarce can go. 

His strength is spent 

In drifts of snow, 

And all the icy blasts that blow. 
JOAN. I don't know who you mean. 
SNOW MAN. Give me your hand. 

And you shall see. 

Here, close at hand, snow-bound goes he. 

Give me your hand. 

And come with me. 
JOAN. With you? Why do you think I'd come with you? 

I've got my children, I've a husband, too, 

One as I love. 



258 THE SNOW MAN 

SNOW MAN. And he — does he love you? 
JOAN. That's no concern o' yo urn! 

Aye, a' did once, Aye! and a' will again, 

Some day, perhaps. When he first married me, 

'A did, — 'a did ! We've sat here in this room 

A-kissing by the hour! That were before 

The children come. Children do make a house 

No comfort to a man. He had his right 

To go. He didn't want 'em, but I did! 

I did! 

Aye! and I've 'ad 'em now a whole seven years, 

Worked for 'em, I lived for 'em, starved for 'em. 

And I'd die 

So it could better 'em. 
SNOW MAN. And what — for him? 
JOAN. I've broke my 'eart for 'im; it's past its work. 

And now it ain't no use — no use — to 'im. 
SNOW MAN. Its use has come. Oh, woman, give 

Your heart to me, I'll make it live. 

And what you lend he shall receive. 
JOAN. You can't. You can't do that 

You can't raise up the sun when once it's set; 

You can't put new roots in us, when we're old. 

Dried up, and withered. 
SNOW MAN. Within kind earth 

Dry seed goes sown 

And springs again to birth. 
JOAN. I've 'ad enough of earth. I've sowed, I've reaped, 

I've gathered, and I've strawed. But me and 'im 

We won't meet any more. He 'aven't come. 

Nigh me — not for a year. 

And when he did come back — he went again 

Next day. 
SNOW MAN. Went? Where? 
JOAN. Nowhere. He roves about. Seeing the world, 'e 

calls it. Roving blood. That's been 'is curse; and mind, 

'is roving blood, it haven't always roved. He liked his 



THE SNOW MAN 259 

ease, he liked the victuals I give him well enough, he liked 
his fireside, and he liked his bed when I was by 'ini. Ah! 
And then one day he'd 'ad enough of comfort, and was 
oflF, — looking for what? 'Ardship? He might have 'ad 
that 'ere if he'd but stayed. Aye, that 'e could — for it's 
been 'ard enough — with they two there. Ah, you may 
look at 'em, they 'aven't known trouble — yet they was with 
me all the time. Why, there' ve been days when I've not 
'ad enough to eat myself. And what 'ave fed me? Just 
to 'ear 'em laugh and think they 'aven't known. What do 
you look at me like that for? What do you know? What 
did you come for? Say! 

SNOW MAN. To bring you comfort. 

JOAN. Comfort? I've got no place for comfort in me now. 
It isn't that I want — it's rest. 

SNOW MAN. 'Tis rest I bring. 

JOAN. Where's 'e? 

SNOW MAN. Here — near at hand. Come, come and do not 
be afraid. 
[He takes her hand. 

JOAN. Oh, dearie me. This feels like death. Like death! 
[As they touch hands a mist draws over the stage, the walls of 
the house seem to fade away, the sound of the storm grows loud 
around them. They stand in a white world full of obscure 
movement and pale drifting forms. 

SNOW MAN. What do you see? 

JOAN. A waste of snow. 

SNOW MAN. Anyone there? 

JOAN. No one I know. No — only you. What? You say 
you saw him on the road, coming? How do you know 
that it was 'im? Yes — yes — 'e was like that. But 

younger, 'andsomer than that, — not lame 

No, he was never lame — a young, young man, 

And strong ! 

Oh, lost his way? You say 'e'd lost his way? 
Well, maybe that might tire 'im just a bit, 
But oh, e'd find it! Oh, trust him for that! 



260 THE SNOW MAN 

He's been all round the world — and lost bis way 
Tbrough coming 'ome. Yes, yes, he's coming 'ome. 
Ah! Now I see 'im. Yes, I'm 'ere, I'm 'ere! 
Waiting for yer, — waiting — expecting yer. 
Ah, never mind. Though yer don't love me, still 
It's back to me you come! Yer can't 'elp that 
That's 'ow God made yer. That's why He made me. 
No ! I can't reach yer. No, he's got my hand, 
Holding it, holding it, — and won't leave go! 
I'd 'elp yer, if I could. I'd die for yer! 
But he won't let me go. 

I'm cold, I'm cold ! 

Can't see! — I've lost my way, 
And I shan't — never — any more come home! 
[The snow man looses her hand, and she falls. The mist 
clears from a dark stage, the walls close in again, the chamber 
remains in darkness. A figure stumbles past the window, 
the door is thrown open, the Snow man stands aside. Enter 
Jaspar. 
JASPAR. Home! Home, at last! Who's there? Anyone 
there? 
What? Nobody? No fire? Oh, bitter cold it feels 

(Fumbles for match-box) 

Here, fool, give me a light! 

Light, can't yer? Ah, what's that, what's that, what's 

that? 

Who are yer? What for are you lying there? 

Get up! Get up! What makes 'e be so cold? 

So clammed? /o. -7 7- 7^\ 

{Strikes a light) 

What the — ! My wife ! It be my wife ! 

Wife! Don't 'e hear me? It be I, come back, 

Jaspar come back — Jaspar come home again 

Jaspar — why don't 'e answer? There, now there! 

Have that to warm yer. Oh, ye'U soon come round. 

Ye' ve starved yourself, ye — ! Ah — she's dead, she's dead ! 

(He lifts her onto the chair by the hearth and now holds the 



THE SNOW MAN 261 

candle to her face, then draws away with a growing fear of 
what other deaths may he there. He advances to the crib, 
and looks in on the sleeping children. He assures himself 
that they are alive. It startles him to fresh hope: he turns 
back to his wife) 

No, she ain't dead, she can't be, they're alive! 
She wouldn't leave 'em. No, she can't be dead. 
Wife, do 'e hear? The children be alive. 

You wouldn't go and leave 'em, no, not you 

'T wouldn't be like yer. There, my — there, come, come! 
Take warmth o' me, — out of my 'eart and soul ! 
I'll make ye warm. 

(He takes her to his heart) 
AVhy, I was coming 'once. 
I'd 'a been yere before, but I lost my way, 
Got buried in the snow. Then I 'card you 
A-callin' me! I thought I saw your face, 
Then it all went, and then, my feet grew strong, 
Life come to me, and warmth, and here I be ! 
Can't 'e speak to me.'^ Be ye gone so far 
As 'e can't 'ear me? Not the word I'd say 
To tell 'e how I loved 'e? 
Ah, now I be in 'ell, I be in 'ell! 
And 'a won't never know. 

(Her hand falls out across chair, pointing toward the crib) 
What's that to say? 
Oh, the dear hand. Yes, I'll look after 'em. 

They shan't know want — and I won't go away 

The way I'd wish to go. I'll bear my life 
And all the burden of it. There, there, my lass. 
Rest ye in peace, I'll do my best by 'em! 
I'll do my best. 

[He bends and kisses her on the lips. The Snow man makes 
a pass toward her with his hand. She moves, and opens her 
eyes, all dazed and dreaming. 
JOAN. Who's that, who's that got hold o' me? Let go! I 
must go to 'im. 



262 THE SNOW MAN 

JASPAR. No, no, bide 'e still. Here's Jaspar! 

JOAN. Jaspar! 

JASPAR. Oh, you be alive! 

[He sinks down broken, with his hsad on her breast. She 
takes his head in her hands stroking it softly. The Snow man 
moves slowly to the door, fades through it, and disappears. 

JOAN. So you've come back, I knew you'd come — some 
day. What's this? 
[She touches the coat. 

JASPAR. My coat. I found you lyin' there cold, so I put it 
around yer. But you made no sign — until I thought as 
yer was dead. 

JOAN. Dead.f* Would I leave 'em? Leave my little 'uns? 

JASPAR. Ah, there you do get home. It's a true charge. 
It's what I done. 

JOAN. You 'ad the roving blood. You couldn't *elp it. 

JASPAR. It ain't brought me no joy. 

JOAN. Jaspar, I think you've come here in a dream 
Put your arms round me and 'old me. Don't let go. 
Help me to dream, I'd like for it to last 
Just one more hour — put your 'ead on my heart. 
And don't you speak — don't speak — I want to dream, 
You be come back again! I want to dream. 
[They lie still in each other's arms. Dawn light begins to 
creep in. A sound of sliding snow is heard on the roof, a 
sharp twittering of birds; down across the window masses of 
snowfall in soft thunder. There follotvs a sound of dropping 
water: the thaw has begun. The outer world grows radiant 
with light. The doors of the cubby-bed fly open, the two chil- 
dren peep out. A soft but heavy crash of falling snow is 
heard. It strikes the door. 

MARY. Mother, what's that? Get up, get up, it's light! 
(Jumps out of bed, followed by Matthew) Oh, come and 
look! The snow's all falling — right down off the roof. 
Look how it's letting go ! 

MATTHEW. Oh, the snow man. Look at the snow man! 
Oh! [Opens door. 



THE SNOW MAN 263 

MARY. Mother, the snow man's tumbled in the night. 

[Joan opens her eyes. 
JOAN. Hush, hush, don't wake 'im. Come 'e and look 'ere. 

[The children approach softly, curious and surprised, 
MARY. Who is it, mother? 
JOAN. The snow man, my dear. He's come to stay. 

CURTAIN 



FANCY FREE 

STANLEY HOUGHTON 

William Stanley Houghton was born at Ashton-upon- 
Mersey in 1881. At the age of sixteen he entered his 
father's law office in Manchester, where he worked until 
1912. That year he witnessed the successful production of 
his "Hindle Wakes", a play which was later performed in 
London and throughout the United States. From 1912 
until the end of his short life, he devoted all his time to 
the writing of plays. Early in 1913 he went to Paris, fell 
ill, recovered, and returned to London in June of the 
same year. He soon left England once again, on his way 
to Venice. From Italy, after an attack of influenza and 
appendicitis, he was brought to Manchester, where he died 
in December. 

At the time of his death, Stanley Houghton was perhaps 
the best known dramatist of the so-called "Manchester 
School." "Hindle Wakes" is without doubt his best play, 
but in his short dramas and comedies he attempted — 
and in the best of them successfully — to portray with 
exactitude and sympathy the characters of his native 
Lancashire. 

The one-act plays were, fortunately, not intended merely 
as curtain raisers: they were written as independent works, 
and not in order to amuse the pit before the stalls are filled. 
The Manchester dramatists were encouraged to develop the 
one-act form, not to regard it as a convenient repository 
for material otherwise not suitable for use. 



266 FANCY FREE 



PLAYS 

*The Dear Departed (1908) *The Fifth Commandment 

Independent Means (1909) (1913) 

*The Master of the House Trust the People (1913) 

(1910) *The Old Testament and the 

The Younger Generation New (1914) 

(1910) Partners (1914) 

*Fancy Free (1911) Marriages in the Making 

Hindle Wakes (1912) (1914) 

*Pearls (1912) The Hillarys (1915) 

*Phipps (1912) (In collaboration with 

The Perfect Cure (1913) Harold Brighouse) 

Ginger (1913) 

"The Dear Departed", "The Master of the House", 
"Fancy Free", "Phipps", and "The Fifth Commandment" 
are published as "Five One-Act Plays", by Samuel French, 
New York; "Independent Means", "The Younger Genera- 
tion", and "Hindle Wakes", separately, by the same; all 
the plays, except "Trust the People", "Ginger", "Pearls", 
and "The Hillarys ", are included in "The Works of Stanley 
Houghton", 3 volumes, Constable and Company, London. 

References: Harold Brighouse, Introduction to "The 
Works of Stanley Houghton", Constable and Company, 
London; Gerald Cumberland, "Set Down in Malice", Bren- 
tano's. New York. 

Magazines: The Bookman, vol. xxxvi, p. 641, New York; 
Manchester Playgoer, vol. xi. No. 1; Manchester Quarterly, 
vol. xxxiii, p. 213; The Living Age, vol. cclxxx, p. 413, Boston; 
McClure's, vol. xl, p. 69, New York. 



FANCY FREE 



By STANLEY HOUGHTON 



"Fancy Free" was first produced at London in 1912. 

Characters 

Fancy 
Alfred 
Ethelbert 
Delia 

The Scene represents the writing-room of the Hotel Cos- 
mopolitan, Babylon -on-Sea. 



COPYBIGHT, 1913, BT SaMUEL FbENCH, LIMITED 

All rights reserved 

Reprinted from "Five One-Act Plays", by pormiasion of Samuel French, Pub- 
lisher, New York. 

"All inquiries respecting the performance of any play contained in this volume 
must be addressed to Samuel French, 28 West 3Sth Street, New York City, U. S. A. 



FANCY FREE 

The writing-room of the Hotel Cosmopolitan is a tall, hand- 
some apartment, exquisitely furnished. The great fireplace faces 
the spectator, ivith a lounge chair on each side. Near him, on 
his left, is a double writing-table containing two desks opposite 
one another. Chairs face each desk. Still further left is a 
settee against the wall. On his right a settee placed at right 
angles to the wall, a small low table, and a low padded armchair. 
There is another writing-table on the right of the fireplace, and 
a book-case on the left. The two entrances, each with double 
doors, are set diagonally across the two visible corners of the 
room, one right and one left. 

The fire is burning, and the electric lights are on. It is a 
little after ten o'clock. 

Fancy, in an evening gown, is sitting on the right hand of 
the double desk, trying to compose a letter. She is petite, dark 
and pretty. Alfred comes in from the left in evening dress. He 
is tall, fair, clean-shaven and handsome. 
FANCY (looking up). Well? 
ALFRED. I find that the last post goes at midnight. It is 

now exactly a quarter-past ten. 
FANCY. Then I have still an hour and three-quarters in 

which to finish the letter. 

[Alfred kneels on the chair on the other side of the double desk 

and watches Fancy. 
ALFRED. I am disappointed in you, Fancy. I knew that 

I should be disappointed in you some day, but I did not 

expect it to come so soon. 
FANCY. My dear Alfred, pray do not forget that this is no 

ordinary letter. 
ALFRED. It ought not to be so difficult to tell one's husband 

that one has run away from him. 



270 FANCY FREE 



FANCY. But I have had so little experience. I daresay I 

shall improve with practice. 
ALFRED. How far have you got.'* 

FANCY. I'll read it to you. "Darling Ethelbert " 

ALFRED. Stop! Ought you to call him darling now.^* 
FANCY. Why not.'* 

ALFRED. A sensitive mind might detect something inappro- 
priate in the adjective. 
FANCY. I always call him darling when I write to him. I 
feel sure he would feel hurt if I omitted to do so on this 
occasion. Besides, I am still very fond of him. 
ALFRED. Perhaps you are right. We cannot too scrupu- 
lously avoid wounding him. 
FANCY {reading). "Darling Ethelbert, 

"You will be interested to hear that since you went to 
Scotland on Thursday last I have decided to run away 
with Alfred. You cannot have forgotten the promises 
we made each other on our wedding-day. I am not re- 
ferring to those we made publicly during the marriage 
ceremony, but to our private understanding that each 
should be entirely free and untrammelled provided that 
the other's health and comfort was not interfered with. 
You will understand, therefore, that in leaving you and 
going away with Alfred I am doing nothing that is con- 
trary to our agreement. You would have been entitled 
to complain only if I had insisted on bringing Alfred 
home with me." 
That's logic, isn't it? 
ALFRED. Yes, Feminine logic. 
FANCY. That is all Ethelbert has any right to expect from 

me. 
ALFRED. How do you proceed.'' 
FANCY. I don't. That is the difficulty. 
ALFRED. At any rate. Fancy, you have made it clear to 
Ethelbert that you have left him. That is all that is 
essential. You have only to wind up now. 
FANCY. How? "Yours faithfully"? 



FANCY FREE 271 



ALFRED. Why not "Yours formerly"? 

FANCY. But I am afraid that is too abrupt. Ethelbert is 
so sensitive. I should like to wind up with something 
kind. 

ALFRED. Let me see. "You will be glad to hear that we 
are having an awfully jolly time here." 

FANCY. I doubt whether Ethelbert would be glad to hear it. 

ALFRED. Then something chatty or discursive. "The Cos- 
mopolitan is an exceedingly nice hotel. It contains no 
fewer than 250 bedrooms, each elaborately furnished with 
all modern conveniences." 

FANCY. Ethelbert will hardly care for such details. Besides, 
I do not consider that the Cosmopolitan is such a nice 
hotel. 

ALFRED. It is an exceedingly expensive one. Let us en- 
deavour to extract as much enjoyment out of it as possible. 

FANCY. I am sure that I should have preferred the Grand 
Rendevous. 

ALFRED. The Grand Rendevous is, if possible, still more ex- 
pensive. 

FANCY. WTiat does that matter? 

ALFRED. To you, little or nothing. It is I who have to pay 
the bill. 

FANCY. Alfred, you have the soul of a stockbroker. 

ALFRED. Do not flatter me. I have sometimes hoped I had. 

FANCY. If I had realized how useless you would be in an 
emergency, I doubt whether I should have run away with 
you. 

ALFRED. My dear Fancy, I did not run away with you in 
order to conduct your correspondence. You should have 
advertised for a private secretary. I had hoped to be 
something more to you than that. 

FANCY {rising). I shall go to my room. It is quite impos- 
sible for me to finish this letter here. 

ALFRED. Why? 

FANCY. This room is far too crowded. 

ALFRED. This is not a quarrel, I trust. Fancy. 



272 FANCY FREE 



FANCY. Certainly not. I hope I have too much tact to 
quarrel with you on the first day of our elopement. 
[Fancy goes to the door with her letter. 

ALFRED. When may I expect to see you again? 

FANCY. The last post goes at midnight. 

[Fancy goes out left. Hardly has she gone than Ethelbert 
comes in right. He is a good-looking, dark man, in evening 
dress. 

ALFRED (thunderstruck). Ethelbert! 

ETHELBERT. Alfred ! 

ALFRED. My dear fellow. 

ETHELBERT. How are you, old chap? 

ALFRED. What brings you here? I understood you were 
travelling on business. 

ETHELBERT. So I am. Extremely private business. 

ALFRED. How singular that we should meet! 

ETHELBERT. Are you here on business too? 

ALFRED. Er — yes. Extremely private business also. 

ETHELBERT. Comc. Let US sit down and talk. 

' [He sits in the armchair right of the fire. 

ALFRED. With pleasure. But do not let us talk here. 

ETHELBERT. Why UOt? 

ALFRED. This is an exceedingly dull room. 

ETHELBERT. It is a Very charming room. 

ALFRED. But I assure you, I have been here quite half an 

hour, and nothing whatever has happened. 
ETHELBERT. Then we can talk the more comfortably. 

[Alfred sits down reluctantly. 
ALFRED. Where were you going when you came in here? 
ETHELBERT. I was looking for the American Bar. 
ALFRED. Excellent ! We will go and look for it together. 

[He rises. 
ETHELBERT. Presently. There is no hurry. 

[Alfred sits down. 
ALFRED {yawning). Do you know, Ethelbert, I feel I ought 

to be getting to bed. 
ETHELBERT. Bed? Why, it is only half -past ten. 



FANCY FREE 273 



ALFRED. I promised my mother, before she died, that 

whenever practicable I would be in bed by half-past ten. 
ETHELBERT. But I Want to talk to you about Fancy. 
ALFRED. About Fancy! Do you think you ought to talk 

to me about Fancy? The relations of a husband and wife 

should be sacred, surely. 
ETHELBERT. I Want to ask your advice, Alfred. I have 

begun to suspect that Fancy is growing tired of me. 
ALFRED {looking at his watch). I must positively be in bed 

before half-past ten o'clock 

ETHELBERT. Why does a woman grow tired of a man? 
ALFRED. Because the last post goes at midnight. 
ETHELBERT. No. Bccause she prefers somebody else. 
ALFRED {interested). Do you suspect that Fancy is in love 

with somebody else? 

ETHELBERT. I do. 

ALFRED. Who is he? 

ETHELBERT. I havo no idea. I wish I had. 

ALFRED. Don't you think you will be much happier if you 
remain in ignorance? 

ETHELBERT. Oh, I am not thinking of myself. I am think- 
ing of him. 

ALFRED. Indeed. 

ETHELBERT. Ycs. I should like to warn him. 

ALFRED. To warn him? 

ETHELBERT. I'm afraid she'll be running away with the poor 
fellow. 

ALFRED {uneasily). Why do you call him a poor fellow? 

ETHELBERT. Faucy is so terribly extravagant. She spends 
money like water, especially when it is not her own. 

ALFRED {unthinkingly). Have you found that out, too? 

ETHELBERT. Of course I've found it out, and so would you 
if you had been married to her as long as I have. Can- 
didly, I'm afraid Fancy will ruin the poor fellow. 

ALFRED. What has that to do with you? 

ETHELBERT. I hope I am a humane person, Alfred. I would 
not willingly see my worst enemy reduced to the work- 



274 FANCY FREE 



house, and this poor fellow may be one of my friends. I 
should be intensely sorry if one of my friends ruined him- 
self for the sake of my wife. I can assure you that she is 
not worth it. In my experience, very few women are. 

ALFRED. Ethelbert, forgive me if I point out that you are 
not looking at this affair in the proper way. 

ETHELBERT. Indeed? In what way do you consider that 
I ought to look at it? 

ALFRED. Do you mean to say that you are not indignant 
at the idea of another man eloping with your wife? 

ETHELBERT. Not in the least. 

ALFRED {warmly). Then you ought to be, that's all. 

ETHELBERT. When I married Fancy we arranged to leave 
each other absolutely free. I am a gentleman, Alfred; 
you would not have rae break my word. 

ALFRED. But it is quite inconceivable! You are without 
any sense of moral responsibility. You ought to be 
ashamed of yourself. 

ETHELBERT. I Very often am. Aren't you? 

ALFRED. Certainly not. I regulate my life, I am thankful 
to say, by a strict rule of conduct, which I observe as 
closely as possible. If I have lapses, so much the worse. 
They are regrettable, but not unnatural. At any rate, I 
have the immense consolation of knowing that my prin- 
ciples are not lax, but that I have merely failed to adhere 
to them for once in a way. 

ETHELBERT. Bclieve me, Alfred, it is a mistake to have too 
many principles. 

ALFRED. Why? 

ETHELBERT. Because if you have too many it is quite im- 
possible to stick to them all. I content myself with one 
only. 

ALFRED. What is that? 

ETHELBERT. Ncvcr bc a hypocrite. It is an excellent maxim. 
It permits you to do whatever you please, provided you 
don't pretend you are not doing it. I advise you to adopt 
it and to drop all your other principles. 



FANCY FREE 275 



ALFRED. Do you insinuate that I am a hypocrite? 

ETHELBERT. Not at all. 

ALFRED. Then you are wrong. I am. 

ETHELBERT. Really? You grow more interesting every day. 

ALFRED. Please do not flatter me. I am conscious that I 
do not deserve it. Ethelbert, your deplorable views 
about morality have awakened my conscience. I must 
conceal the truth from you no longer. Besides, I think 
it is extremely probable that you would have found it out 
in any case very shortly. 

ETHELBERT. What do you mean? 

ALFRED. I knew, all the time, that Fancy was in love with 
another man. 

ETHELBERT. How? 

ALFRED. Because I am that other man. 

ETHELBERT. You don't say so ! Permit me to offer you my 

sincere condolences. 
ALFRED. Thank you. 

[They shake hands gravely. 
ETHELBERT. How fortunatc that I should be able to warn 

you before it is too late! 
ALFRED. Ethelbert, you must know all. It is too late. I 

have already run away with your wife. 
ETHELBERT. Already! When did it happen? 
ALFRED. This morning. 

ETHELBERT. This momiug? Then 

ALFRED. Yes. You are right. Fancy is actually in this 

hotel at the present moment. 
ETHELBERT. Upon my soul, Alfred, this is most unfriendly 

of you. 
ALFRED. Go on. I am conscious that I merit all your re- 
proaches. 
ETHELBERT. I call it grossly indelicate to bring Fancy to 

the very hotel in which I am staying. 
ALFRED. But, hang it all, we did not know that you were 

staying here. You don't suppose we chose it for that 

reason, do you? We thought you were in Scotland. 



276 FANCY FREE 



ETHELBERT. Ah, truc. I did go to Scotland. I spoke 

without reflecting. I beg your pardon, Alfred. 
ALFRED {'politely). Not at all. 

{A pause. 
ETHELBERT. Well, and how do you get on with Fancy? 
ALFRED. I hardly think I am justified in venturing upon an 

opinion upon such a slight acquaintance. 
ETHELBERT. I woudcF if I may presume to offer you some 

advice? 
ALFRED. By all means. 
ETHELBERT. If you are going to succeed in managing 

Fancy, you will have to put your foot down at once. 
ALFRED. Put my foot down? 
ETHELBERT. How much havc you spent to-day? 
ALFRED. About sevcn hundred and fifty pounds. 

ETHELBERT. I thought SO. 

ALFRED. Fancy bought a motor-car this afternoon. 

ETHELBERT. She will buy another to-morrow. 

ALFRED. But I can't afford it. How did you succeed in 

curbing her extravagance? 
ETHELBERT. I threatened to advertise in the papers that I 

should not be responsible for any debts contracted by my 

wife. 
ALFRED. Since she is not my wife I can hardly do that, 

can I? 
ETHELBERT. You might advertise that you will not be 

responsible for any debts contracted by my wife. 
ALFRED. Don't you think that would be a little pointed? 
ETHELBERT. Perhaps it would. 
ALFRED. No, Ethelbert, there is only one way out of the 

difficulty. I will resign Fancy to you. 
ETHELBERT. Not ou any account. 
ALFRED (rising). Yes. I cannot allow you to outbid me in 

generosity. I will go and find her and bring her to you. 
ETHELBERT {rising). For Heaven's sake, don't tell my wife 

I am staying here. 
ALFRED. Why not? 



FANCY FREE 277 



ETHELBERT. Because I am not alone. 
ALFRED. Not alone? 
ETHELBERT. Her name is Delia. 
ALFRED (indignantly). Ethelbert! 
ETHELBERT. Well, Alfred? 
ALFRED. You shock me, gravely. 

ETHELBERT. You are very thin-skinned. Have you al- 
ready forgotten what errand brought you to this 

hotel? 
ALFRED (with dignity). There is no reason why you should 

make my lapse an excuse for your own. Have you thought 

of your wife? 
ETHELBERT. She need never know, unless you tell her. 
ALFRED. I thought you said that Fancy and you agreed to 

leave each other entirely free. 
ETHELBERT. We gavc cach other our word of honour. 
ALFRED. Then why do you wish to hide the truth from 

her? 
ETHELBERT. Faucy is not a gentleman. She is a woman. 

She does not understand the meaning of honour. 
ALFRED. You are trifling. I regret to say, Ethelbert, that 

I shall consider it my duty to inform your wife immediately 

of the whole deplorable business. 
ETHELBERT. So be it. Far be it from me to try and induce 

you to act contrary to the dictates of your conscience. 

[Fancy comes in left, with a letter. 
FANCY. Ethelbert! 
ET H ELB ERT . Fancy ! 
FANCY. How fortunate! I can give you this letter now. 

That will save a penny stamp. 
ETHELBERT. Thank you. I will destroy the letter. 

[He tears it and throws it in the fire. 
FANCY. Oh, why did you do that? It took me such a long 

time to write. 
ETHELBERT. I am already aware of its contents. 
FANCY. You have told him, Alfred? 
ALFRED. Yes. 



278 FANCY FREE 



FANCY. Then, Ethelbert, may I ask what you are doing 

here? I consider it grossly indelicate of you to follow us 

about like this. You wouldn't like it yourself. 
ALFRED. Ethelbert has not followed us. He has come here 

for a reason of his own. 
FANCY. A reason of his own? 
ALFRED. Yes. How Can I tell you? {A pause) Her name 

is Delia. 
FANCY. Oh! Oh! Ethelbert, how dare you? 
ETHELBERT. My dear Fancy, you remember what we ar- 
ranged. 
FANCY. I don't care what we arranged. You have had 

the bad taste to prefer another woman to me. I shall 

never forgive you. 
ETHELBERT. But, Faucy, listen. 
FANCY. I shall not listen. I don't want to hear a single 

word about her. Where did you meet her? 
ETHELBERT. She was staying at my hotel in Edinburgh. 
FANCY. That was no reason why you should have spoken 

to her. 
ETHELBERT. I didn't. She spoke to me. We were sitting 

at adjoining tables in the Winter Garden. 
FANCY. She dropped a glove? A handkerchief? 
ETHELBERT. How did you know that? 
FANCY. Never mind. 
ETHELBERT. Of course I picked it up. 
FANCY. And what did she say to you? 
ETHELBERT. She Said, "Do you know, you've got the most 

delightfully wicked eyes." That was how it began. 

[Delia comes in right. She is a tall, gorgeously-dressed and 

beautiful woman, with a mass of red-gold hair. 
DELIA (in a fury). Really, Bertie, this is too bad. I've 

been looking for you all over the hotel. 
ALFRED. This, I presume, is the lady in question. 
ETHELBERT. My dear Delia, I am exceedingly sorry that I 

have been detained, but this lady is an old acquaintance 

of mine. She is, in fact, my wife. 



FANCY FREE 279 



DELIA. Indeed. {To Fancy) So you are his wife.? 

FANCY. As it happens. 

DELIA. I am very glad to meet you, if only to have the 
opportunity of complaining about the way you have 
trained your husband. 

FANCY. I did not train him. 

DELIA. That is just what I complain about. Under the 
circumstances I can forgive his leaving me alone in the 
Lounge of a strange hotel, but his table manners are frankly 
uncivilized. Do you know that he reads the morning 
paper during breakfast? 

FANCY. He never does so at home. 

DELIA. You must not expect to make me believe that. 

FANCY. But it is perfectly true. During breakfast I al- 
ways read the morning paper myself. 

DELIA. Ah, no doubt in self-defence. 

FANCY. Not at all. 

DELIA. I suppose one can become inured to anything, in 
time, even to Bertie's light breakfast conversation. 

FANCY. That shows how superficial your acquaintance with 
Ethelbert is. I like his breakfast conversation because he 
goes on talking without stopping. Consequently, it is not 
necessary for me to pay any attention to him, and I can 
read the morning paper in peace. 

ETHELBERT. This is most unkind of you both. My light 
breakfast conversation has always been much admired, 
especially by ladies. (To Delia) I am sure you will 
alter your opinion if you will only do me the favour, 
Delia, of listening a little more carefully to-morrow 
morning. 

FANCY. Certainly not. 

ETHELBERT. I beg your pardon.^* 

FANCY. She will have no opportunity of Ustening to you 
more carefully. 

ETHELBERT. Why not? 

FANCY. Because you will breakfast with me to-morrow 
morning. 



280 FANCY FREE 



ETHELBERT. Oh, vcry Well, then perhaps you will do me the 
favour of listening more carefully. 

FANCY. I fancy that during breakfast to-morrow you will 
be fully occupied in listening to me, for once in a way. I 
do not think that I shall have sufficient time to say all I 
wish to say to you to-night. You have provided me with 
a very fruitful topic. 

ETHELBERT. But, my dear Fancy, I fear we can hardly pur- 
sue it to-night. We both appear to have previous en- 
gagements. 

DELIA {to Ethelbert). You have no previous engagement. 

ETHELBERT. Delia! 

DELIA. It is cancelled. 

ETHELBERT. You are cruel, Delia. 

DELIA. It is your own fault. How can you expect any 
self-respecting woman to put up with the treatment I have 
received from you? 

FANCY. May I ask what further complaint you have to 
make about my husband? 

DELIA. He has no sense of decency. I consider it grossly 
indelicate of him to bring me to this hotel whilst you are 
stopping here. I have never been treated in such a manner 
before. 

FANCY. I think you take a very proper view of the affair. 
Ethelbert ought to be thoroughly ashamed of himself. 

DELIA. Good-bye, Bertie. {She holds out her hand) I shall 
never listen to your light breakfast conversation again. 

FANCY. And good-bye, Alfred. {She holds out her hand) 
My only regret is that I shall never know what your light 
breakfast conversation is like. 

ALFRED. Don't say that. Fancy. Why shouldn't we all four 
have breakfast together in the morning? 

DELIA. No. I am sorry, but I must draw the line some- 
where. 

FANCY. You are right. You have the most perfect taste. 
I am begining to admire you immensely. Good-bye. 

DELIA. Good-bye, 



FANCY FREE 281 



FANCY. Good night, Alfred. 
ALFRED. Good night, Fancy. 
FANCY. Come, Ethelbert. 

[She takes his arm. 
ETHELBERT (to Delia and Alfred). Good night. 

[Fancy and Ethelbert go out left. A pause. 
DELIA (raising her eyebrows). Well? 
ALFRED. Well? 

DELIA. And what do we do now? 
ALFRED. Would you like some supper? 
DELIA. No, thanks. {She sits in an armchair by the fire) 

You may order me some champagne if you like. 
ALFRED. Willingly. 

[Alfred rings an electric bell, and then sits facing Delia in 

the other armchair. They look straight at each other for a time. 
DELIA (at length, leaning forward). Do you know, you've 

got the most delightfully wicked eyes. 

CURTAIN 

(This play should be acted with the most perfect seriousness 
and polish. It should not be played in a spirit of burlesque. 
It should be beautifully acted, beautifully costumed and beauti- 
fully staged.) 



LONESOME-LIKE 

HAROLD BRIGHOUSE 

The author of "Lonesome-Like" was born in Lancashire in 
1882, and was educated at the Manchester Grammar School. 
Harold Brighouse has been closely identified with the "Man- 
chester School" of drama, because some of his best known 
plays are concerned with the people of his native Lancashire 
and were first produced by Miss Horniman's Repertory 
Company at the Gaiety Theater in Manchester. That his 
work is too closely identified with this movement is re- 
gretted by Mr. B. Iden Payne in his preface to "Hobson's 
Choice", as it "tends to give the impression that all his 
plays have a local character. Actually the sixteen plays, 
long and short, which have already [1916] been performed 
cover a wide range in setting and subject, and out of this 
number only five have a Lancashire background, and only 
six have been played by Miss Horniman's company." 

Mr. Brighouse's first characteristic dramatic venture was 
"The Doorway", "little more than a dialogue between two 
outcasts, a man and a woman, strangers to each other, who 
meet by chance in the shelter of a factory door and find 
mutual comfort in telling over their misfortunes and their 
past adventures as they huddle together in the biting cold 
of the small hours of a winter's morning." 

The author is interested primarily in human character; in 
all his plays one remembers longest the people, not the situa- 
tions. His best work is found in his comedies, "Hobson's 
Choice" and" Lonesome-Like" being without doubt his 
most characteristic pieces. 

Brighouse's technical art is exercised to the end that human 
beings may be exhibited within an interesting framework, 
not that the framework may be an end in itself. Says 
Brighouse in his Preface to "Three Lancashire Plays": "It 



284 LONESOME-LIKE 



is those plays which exhibit in high degree the use of action 
in the form of dialogue that are the more comfortable read- 
ing; and, always postulating that a play is a play ... a 
thing practicable, actable and effective on the stage — the 
more physical action is subordinated to character, to the ex- 
ploration of human nature, the better it is for reading pur- 
poses and the better for all purposes." 

PLAYS 

*The Doorway (1909) The Northerners (1914) 

*The Price of Coal (1909) Hobson's Choice (1915) 

Deahng in Futures (1909) *Converts (1915) 

Graft (1911) TheRoadtoRaebury(1915) 

The Polygon (1911) *Followirs (1915) 

*Lonesome-Like (1911) The Hiilarys (1915) 

*The Oak Settle (1911) (In collaboration with 

*SpringinBloomsbury(1911) Stanley Houghton) 

*The Scaring-Off of Teddy Zack (1916) 

Dawson (1911) The Clock Goes Round 

*Little Red Shoes (1912) (1916) 

The Odd Man Out (1912) Maid of France (1917) 

The Game (1913) Other Times (1920) 
Garside's Career (1914) 

"The Doorway", "Dealing in Futures", "Graft", "The 
Oak Settle", "The Scaring-Off of Teddy Dawson", and 
"The Odd Man Out" are published separately by Samuel 
French, New York; "The Game", "The Northerners", and 
"Zack", in "Three Lancashire Plays", by the same; "The 
Price of Coal", "Lonesome-Like", "Converts", and "Maid 
of France", by Gowans and Gray, London; "Garside's 
Career", by A. C. McClurg and Company, Chicago; and 
"Hobson's Choice", by Doubleday, Page and Company, 
Garden City, Long Island. 

References: Introduction to "Hobson's Choice", Double- 
day, Page and Company, Garden City, Long Island. 

Magazines: Manchester Quarterly, vol. 33, p. 213. 



LONESOME-LIKE 

A PLAY IN ONE ACT 
By HAROLD BRIGHOUSE 



"Lonesome-Like" was first produced at Glasgow in 1911. 

Characters 

Sarah Ormerod 

Emma Brierly 

Sam Horrocks 

The Rev. Frank Alleyne 

The Scene is laid in a Lancashire village. 



Reprinted by permission of the publisher, Le Roy Phillips. 



LONESOME-LIKE 

The Scene represents the interior of a cottage in a Lan- 
cashire Village. Through the window at the back the grey row 
of cottages opposite is just visible. The outside door is next to 
the window. Door left. A s regards furniture the room is very 
bare. The suggestion is not of an empty room, but a stripped 
room. For example, there are several square patches where the 
distemper of the walls is of a darker shade than the rest, indi- 
cating the places once occupied by pictures. There is an un- 
covered deal table and tico chairs by it near the fireplace right. 
Attached to the left wall is a dresser and a plate rack above it 
containing a few pots. The dresser has also one or two utensils 
upon it. A blackened kettle rests on the top of the cooking 
range, but the room contains only the barest necessities. The 
floor is uncarpeted. There are no window curtains, but a yard 
of cheap muslin is fastened across the window, not coming, 
however, high enough to prevent a passer-by from looking in 
should he wish to do so. On the floor, near the fire, is a battered 
black tin trunk, the lid of which is raised. On a peg behind the 
door left is a black silk skirt and bodice and an old-fashioned 
beaded bonnet. The time is afternoon. As the curtain rises 
the room is empty. Immediately, however, the door left opens 
and Sarah Ormerod, an old woman, enters carrying clumsily 
in her arms a couple of pink flannelette night-dresses, folded 
neatly. Her black stuff dress is well worn, and her wedding- 
ring is her only ornament. She wears elastic-sided boots, and 
her rather short skirt shows a pair of grey worsted stockings. A 
small plaid shawl covers her shoulders. Sarah crosses and puts 
the night-dresses on the table, surveying the trunk ruefully. 
There is a knock at the outside door and she looks up. 
SARAH, Who's theer? 
EMMA {without). It's me, Mrs. Ormerod, Emma Brierly. 



288 LONESOME-LIKE 

SARAH, Eh, coom in, Emma, lass. 

[Enter Emma Brierly. She is a young weaver, and, having 
just left her ivork, she loears a dark skirt, a blouse of some in- 
determinate blue-grey shade made of cotton, and a large shawl 
over her head and shoidders in place of a jacket and hat. A 
coloured cotton apron covers her skirt below the ivaist, and the 
short skirt displays stout stockings similar to Sarah's. She 
wears clogs, and the clothes — except the shawl — are covered 
with ends of cotton and cotton-ioool fluff. Even her hair has 
not escaped. A pair of scissors hangs by a cord from her 
waist. 

SARAH. Tha's kindly welcoom. It's good o' thee to think 
o' coomin' to see an ould woman like me. 

EMMA {by door). Nought o' th' sort, Mrs. Ormerod. Th' 
mill's just loosed and A thowt A'd step in as A were passin' 
and see 'ow tha was feeling like. 

SARAH {crossing to box). Oh, nicely, nicely, thankee. It's 
only my 'ands as is gone paralytic, tha knaws, an' a 
weaver's no manner o' good to nobody without th' use o' 
'er 'ands. A'm all reeght in masel'. That's worst of it. 

EMMA. Well, while A'm 'ere, Mrs. Ormerod, is theer nought 
as A can do for thee? 

SARAH. A dunno as theer is, thankee, Emma. 

EMMA (faking her shawl off, looking round and hanging it on 
a peg in the door). Well, A knaws better. What wert 
doin' when A coom in.'' Packin' yon box.? 

SARAH. Aye. Tha sees theer 's a two three things as A 
canna bear thowt o' parting from. A don't reeghtly knaw 
if they'll let me tak' 'em into workus wi' me, but A canna 
have 'em sold wi' rest of stuff. 

EMMA {crosses below Sarah to box, and kneels). Let me help yo. 

SARAH. Tha's a good lass, Emma. A'd tak' it kindly of thee. 

EMMA. They'd do wi' packin' a bit closer. A dunno as 
they'd carry safe that road. 

SARAH. A know. It's my 'ands tha sees, as mak's it diffi- 
cult for me. 
[Sits on chair left centre. 



LONESOME-LIKE 289 

EMMA. Aye. A'll soon settle 'em a bit tighter. 

[Lifts all out. Burying her arms in the box and rearranging 

its contents. 
SARAH. But what's 'appened to thy looms, lass? They'll 

not weave by 'emselves while thee's 'ere, tha knows. 
EMMA {looking round). Eh, looms is all reeght. Factory's 

stopped. It's Saturday afternoon. 
SARAH. So 'tis. A'd clean forgot. A do forget time o' th' 

week sittin' 'ere day arter day wi' nought to do. 
EMMA. So that's all reeght. Tha's no need to worry about 

me. Tha's got trouble enough of thy own. 

[Resuming at the box. 
SARAH. Aye, th'art reeght theer, lass. Theer's none on us 

likes to think o' going to workus when we're ould. 
EMMA. 'Appen it'll be all reeght after all. Parson's coomin' 

to see thee. 
SARAH. Aye, A knaw 'e is. A dunno, but A'm in 'opes 

'e'U do summat for me. Tha can't never tell what them 

folks can do. 
EMMA (kneeling up). Tha keep thy pecker oop, Mrs. Or- 

merod. That's what my moother says to me when A 

tould 'er A were coomin' in to thee. Keep 'er pecker oop, 

she says. It's not as if she'd been lazy or a wastrel, she 

says; Sal Ormerod's bin a 'ard worker in 'er day, she says. 

It's not as if it were thy fault. Tha can't 'elp tha 'ands 

going paralytic. 

[She continues rummaging in the trunk while speaking. 
SARAH. Naw. It's not my fault. God knaws A'm game 

enough for work, ould as A am. A allays knawed as A'd 

'ave to work for my living all th' days o' my life. A never 

was a savin' sort. 
EMMA. Theer's nowt against thee for that. Theer's some as 

can be careful o' theer brass an' some as can't. It's not 

a virtue, it's a gift. That's what my moother allays says. 

[Resumes packing. 
SARAH. She's reeght an' all. We never 'ad the gift o' 

savin', my man and me. An' when Tom Ormerod took 



290 LONESOME-LIKE 

an' died, the club money as A drew all went on 'is funeral 
an' is gravestone. A warn't goin' to 'ave it said as 'e 
warn't buried proper. 

EMMA. It were a beautiful funeral, Mrs. Ormerod. 

SABAH. Aye. 

EMMA. A will say that, beautiful it were. A never seen a 
better, an' A goes to all as A can. (Rises) A dotes on 
buryin's. Are these the next.? 

[Crosses centre before table for night-dresses. Takes the night- 
dresses, and resumes packing. 

SARAH. Aye. (Emma puts them in and rests on her knees 
listening to Sarah's next speech. Pause) A've been a 
'ouseproud woman all my life, Emma, an A've took 
pride in 'aving my bits o' sticks as good as another's. 
Even th' manager's missus oop to factory 'ouse theer, 
she never 'ad a better show o' furniture nor me, though 
A says it as shouldn't. An' it tak's brass to keep a 
decent 'ouse over your yead. An' we allays 'ad our full 
week's 'ollydain' at Blackpool reglar at Wakes time. 
Us didn't 'ave no childer o' our own to spend it on, 
an' us spent it on ourselves. A allays 'ad a plenty o' 
good food in th' 'ouse an' never stinted nobody, an' Tom 
'e liked 'is beer an' 'is baccy. 'E were a pigeon-fancier too 
in 'is day, were my Tom, an' pigeon-fancying runs away 
wi' a mint o' money. No. Soom'ow theer never was no 
brass to put in th' bank. We was allays spent oop coom 
wages neeght. 

EMMA. A knaw, Mrs. Ormerod. May be A'm young, 
but A knaw 'ow 'tis. We works cruel 'ard in th' 
mill, an', when us plays, us plays as 'ard too (pause), 
an' small blame to us either. It's our own we're 
spendin'. 

SARAH. Aye. It's a 'ard life, the factory 'and's. A can 
mind me many an' many's the time when th' warnin' bell 
went on th' factory lodge at ha'f past five of a winter's 
mornin' as A've craved for another ha'f hour in my bed, 
but Tom 'e got me oop an' we was never after six passin' 



LONESOME-LIKE 291 

through factory gates all th' years we were wed. There's 
not many as can say they were never late. "Work or 
Clem," that were what Tom allays tould me th' ould bell 
were sayin'. An' 'e were reeght, Emma, "Work or Clem" 
is God's truth. (Emma's head in box) An' now th' time's 
coom when A can't work no more. But Parson's a good 
man, 'e'll mak' it all reeght. {Emma's head appears) 
Eh, it were good o' thee to coom in, lass. A bit o' coom- 
pany do mak' a world o' difference. A'm twice as cheer- 
ful as A were. 

EMMA. A'm glad to 'ear tha say so, Mrs. Ormerod. {Rises 
from the box) Is theer owt else.? 

SARAH. A were thinking A'd like lo tak' my black silk as 
A've worn o' Sundays this many a year, but A canna think 
its reeght thing for workus. 

EMMA. Oh, thee tak' it, Mrs. Ormerod. 

SARAH. A'd dearly love to. Tha sees A'm noan in debt, 
nobbut what chairs an table 'uU pay for, and A doan't 
like thowt o' leaving owt as A'm greatly fond of. 

EMMA. Yo doan't, Mrs. Ormerod. Thee tak' it. Wheer is 
it? A'U put un in. Theer's lots o' room on top. A'U 
see un's noan crushed. 

SARAH. It's hanging theer behind door. {Emma crosses back 
to door, gets clothes) A got un out to show Parson. A 
thowt A'd ask un if it were proper to tak' it if A've to go. 
My best bonnet's with it, an' all. 

[Emma goes below table, takes the frock and bonnet, folds it 
on the table and packs it. 

EMMA. A'll put un in. 

SARAH. A'm being a lot o' trouble to thee, lass. 

EMMA. That's nowt, neighbours mun be neighbourly. 
[Gets bonnet from table and packs it. 

SARAH {pause. Looking round). Place doan't look much, 
an' that's a fact. Th' furniture's bin goin' bit by bit, and 
theer ain't much left to part wi' now. 

EMMA. Never mind, it 'ull be all reeght now Parson's takjken 
thee oop. 



292 LONESOME-LIKE 



SARAH. A'm hopin' so. A am hopin' so. A never could 
abide th' thowt o' th' workus — me as 'as bin an 'ard workin' 
woman. A couldn't fancy sleepin' in a strange bed wi' 
strange folk round me, an' when th' Matron said " Do that" 
A'd 'ave to do it, an' when she said "Go theer" A'd 'ave 
to a' gone wheer she tould me — me as 'as allays 'eld my 
yead 'igh an' gone the way A pleased masel'. Eh, it's a 
terrible thowt, the workus, 

EMMA (rising). Now tha's sure that's all.? 

SARAH (pause. Considers). Eh, if A havna forgot my 
neeghtcaps. (Rises, moves centre and stops) A suppose 
they'll let me wear un in yonder. A doan't reeghtly 
think as A'd get my rest proper wi'out my neeghtcaps. 

EMMA. Oh, they'll let thee wear un all reeght. 

SARAH (as she goes). A'U go an' get un. (Exit right. Re- 
turning presently with the white nightcaps) That's all now. 
[Giving them to Emma, who meets her center. 

EMMA (putting them in). Yo never 'ad no childer, did yo, 
Mrs. Ormerod? 

SARAH. No, Emma, no — may be that's as broad as 's long. 
(Sits above fire) Yo never knaw 'ow they go. Soom on 
'em turn again yo when they're growed or they get wed 
themselves an' forget all as yo've done for 'em, like a many 
A could name, and they're allays a worrit to yo when 
they're young. 

EMMA. A'm gettin' wed masel' soon, Mrs. Ormerod. 

SARAH. Are yo, now, Emma? Well, tha art not one o' them 
graceless good-for-nowts. Tha'll never forget thy moother, 
A knaw, nor what she's done for thee. Who's tha keepin' 
coompa,ny with.? 

EMMA. It's Joe Hindle as goes wi' me, Mrs. Ormerod. 

SARAH. 'Indie, 'Indie? What, not son to Robert 'Indie, 
'im as used to be overlooker in th' factory till 'e went to 
foreign parts to learn them Roossians 'ow to weave? 

EMMA. Aye, that's 'im. 

SARAH. Well, A dunno ought about th' lad. 'Is faither were 
a fine man. A minds 'im well. But A'U tell thee this. 



i 



LONESOME-LIKE 293 

Emma, an' A'll tell it thee to thy faice, 'e's doin' well for 

'isself is young Joe 'Indie. 
EMMA. Thankee, Mrs. Ormerod. 
SARAH. Gettin' wed! Think o' that. Why, it seems as 

t'were only t'other day as tha was running about in short 

frocks, an' now tha's growed up and gettin' thasel' wed! 

Time do run on. Sithee, Emma, tha's a good lass. A've 

gotten an ould tea-pot in yonder {indicating her bedroom) 

as my moother give me when A was wed. A weren't for 

packing it in box because o' risk o' breaking it. A were 

going to carry it in my 'and. A'd a mind to keep it till A 

died, but A reckon A'll 'ave no use for it in workus. 
EMMA. Tha's not gone theer yet. 
SARAH. Never mind that. {Slowly rises) A'm going to 

give it thee, lass, for a weddin'-gift. Tha'll tak' care of it, 

A knaw, and when thy eye catches it, 'appen tha'll spare 

me a thowt. 
EMMA. Oh no, Mrs. Ormerod, A couldn't think o' takkin' it. 
SARAH. Art too proud to tak' a gift from me? 
EMMA. No. Tha knaws A'm not. 
SARAH. Then hold thy hush. A'll be back in a minute. 

Happen A'd best tidy masel' up too against Parson 

cooms. 
EMMA. Can A help thee, Mrs. Ormerod? 
SARAH. No, lass, no. A can do a bit for masel'. My 

'ands isn't that bad. A canna weave wi' 'em, but A can do 

all as A need to. 
EMMA. Well, A'll do box up. 

[Crosses to table right and gets cord. 
SARAH. Aye. 
EMMA. All reeght. 

{Exit Sarah. A man's face appears outside at the window. 

He surveys the room, and then the face vanishes as he knocks 

at the door) Who's theer? 
SAM {without). It's me, Sam Horrocks. {Emma crosses left 

and opens door) May A coom in? 
EMMA. What dost want? 



294 LONESOME-LIKE 

SAM {on the doorstep). A want a word wi' thee, Emma 
Brierly. A followed thee oop from factory and A've bin 
waitin' out theer till A'm tired o' waitin'. 

EMMA. Well, tha'd better coom in. A 'aven't time to talk 
wi' thee at door. 

[Emma lets him in, closes door, and, leaving him standing in 
the middle oj the room, resumes work on her knees at the box. 
Sam Horrocks is a hulking young man of a rather vacant ex- 
pression. He is dressed in mechanic's blue dungarees. His 
face is oily and his clothes stained. He wears boots, not 
clogs. He mechanically takes a ball of oily black cotton- 
waste from his right pocket when in conversational difficulties 
and wipes his hands upo7i it. He has a red muffler round his 
neck without collar, and his shock of fair hair is surmounted 
by a greasy black cap, which covers perhaps one-tenth of it. 

SAM (after watching Emma's back for a moment). Wheer's 
Mrs. Ormerod? 

EMMA (without looking up). What's that to do wi' thee? 

SAM (apologetically). A were only askin'. Tha needn't be 
short wi' a chap. 

EMMA. She's in scullery washin' 'er if tha wants to knaw. 

SAM. Oh ! 

EMMA (looking at him over her shoulder after a slight pause). 
Doan't tha tak' thy cap off in 'ouse, Sam Horrocks? 

SAM, Naw. 

EMMA. Well, tha can tak' it off in this 'ouse or get t' other 
side o' door. 

SAM (takes off his cap and stuffs it in his left pocket after trying 
his right and finding the ball of waste in it). Yes, Emma. 
[Emma resumes work ivith her back towards him and waits 
for him to speak. But he is not ready yet. 

EMMA. Well, what dost want? 

SAM. Nought. . . . Eh, but thou art a gradely wench. 

EMMA. What's that to do wi' thee? 

SAM. Nought. 

EMMA. Then just tha mind thy own business, an' doan't 
pass compliments behind folks' backs. 



LONESOME-LIKE 295 

SAM. A didn't mean no 'arm. 

EMMA. Well.'* 

SAM. It's a fine day, isn't it? For th' time o' th' year? 

EMMA. Aye. 

SAM. A very fine day. 

EMMA. Aye. 

SAM (desperate). It's a damned fine day. 

EMMA. Aye. 

SAM {after a moment). Dost know my 'ouse, Emma? 

EMMA. Aye. 

SAM. Wert ever in it? 

EMMA. Not sin' tha moother died. 

SAM. Naw. A suppose not. Not sin' ma moother died. 
She were a fine woman, ma moother, for all she were bed- 
ridden. 

EMMA. She were better than 'er son, though that's not say- 
ing much neither. 

SAM. Naw, but tha does mind ma 'ouse, Emma, as it were 
when she were alive? 

EMMA. Aye. 

SAM. A've done a bit at it sin' them days. Got a new quilt 
on bed from Co-op. Red un it is wi' blue stripes down 'er. 

EMMA. Aye. 

SAM. Well, Emma? 

EMMA (over her shoulder). Well, what? What's thy 'ouse 
an' thy quilt to do wi' me? 

SAM. Oh nought. . . . Tha doesn't 'elp a feller much, 
neither. 

EMMA {rising and facing him. Sam is behind corner table and 
backs a little before her). What's tha gettin' at, Sam Hor- 
rocks? Tha's got a tongue in thy faice, hasn't tha? 

SAM. A suppose so. A doan't use it much though. 

EMMA. No. Tha's not much better than a tongue-tied 
idiot, Sam Horrocks, allays mooning about in th' engine- 
house in day-time an' sulkin' at 'ome neeght-time. 

SAM. Aye, A'm lonely sin' ma moother died. She did 'ave 
a way wi' 'er, ma moother. Th' 'ould plaice 'as not bin 



296 LONESOME-LIKE 

t' same to me sin' she went. Day-time, tha knaws, A'm 

all reeght. Tha sees, them engines, them an' me's pals. 

They talks to me an' A understands their ways. A doan't 

some'ow seem to understand the ways o' folks like as A 

does th' ways o' them engines. 
EMMA. Tha doesn't try. T'other lads goes rattin' or dog- 

feeghtin' on a Sunday or to a football match of a Saturday 

afternoon. Tha stays moonin' about th' 'ouse. Tha's 

not likely to understand folks. Tha's not sociable. 
SAM. Naw. That's reeght enough. A nobbut get laughed 

at when A tries to be sociable an' stand my corner down 

at th' pub wi' th' rest o' th' lads. It's no use ma tryin' 

to soop ale, A can't carry th' drink like t'others. A knaws 

A've ways o' ma own. 
EMMA. Tha has that. 
SAM. A'm terrible lonesome, Emma. That theer 'ouse o' 

mine, it do want a wench about th' plaice. Th' engines 

is all reeght for days, but th' neeghts is that lonesome-like 

tha wouldn't believe. 
EMMA. Tha's only thasel' to blame. It's nought to do wi' 

me, choosehow. 
SAM. Naw.f* A'd . . . A'd 'oped as 'ow it might 'ave, 

Emma. 
EMMA (approachijig threateningly). Sam Horrocks, if tha 

doan't tell me proper what tha means A'll give tha such 

a slap in th' mouth. 
SAM {hacking before her). Tha does fluster a feller, Emma. 

Just like ma moother. 
EMMA. A wish A 'ad bin. A'd 'ave knocked some sense into 

thy silly yead. 
«AM {suddenly and clumsily kneels above chair left of table). 

Wilt tha 'ave me, Emma? A mak' good money in th' 

engine-house. 
EMMA. Get oop, tha great fool. If tha didn't keep thasel' 

so close wi' tha moonin' about in th' engine-'ouse an' never 

speakin' a word to nobody tha'd knaw A were keepin' 

coompany wi' Joe Hindle. 



LONESOME-LIKE 297 

SAM {scrambling up). Is that a fact, Emma? 
EMMA. Of course it's a fact. Bann's 'ull be oop come Sun- 
day fortneeght. We've not 'idden it neither. It's just 

like the great bhnd idiot that tha art not to 'a' seen it long 

enough sin'. 
SAM. A weren't aware. By gum, A 'ad so 'oped as tha'd 

'ave me, Emma. 
EMMA (a little more softly). A'm sorry if A've 'urt thee, Sam. 
SAM. Aye. It were ma fault. Eh, well, A think mebbe 

A'd best be goin'. 
EMMA (lifts box to left). Aye. Parson's coomin' to see Mrs. 

Ormerod in a minute. 
SAM {with pride). A knaw all about that, anyhow. 
EMMA. She'm in a bad way. A dunno masel' as Parson can 

do much for 'er. 
SAM. It's 'ard lines on an ould un. Well, yo'U not want 

me 'ere. A'll be movin' on. {Getting his cap out) No 

offence, Emma, A 'ope. A'd 'ave asked thee first if A'd 

knawn as 'e were after thee. A've bin tryin' for long 

enough. 
EMMA. No. Theer's no offence, Sam. Tha's a good lad if 

tha art a fool, an' mebbe tha's no to blame for that. 

Good-bye. 
SAM. Good-bye, Emma. An' . . . An' A 'ope 'e'll mak' 

thee 'appy. A'd dearly like to coom to th' weddin' an' 

shake 'is 'and. 

[Mrs. Ormerod heard off right. 
EMMA, A'll see tha's asked. Theer's Mrs. Ormerod stirrin'. 

Tha'd best be gettin'. 
SAM. All reeght. Good-bye, Emma. 
EMMA. Good-bye, Sam. 

[Exit Sam left center. Mrs. Ormerod comes from the inside 

door. She has a small blue tea-pot in her hand. 
SARAH. Was anybody 'ere, Emma? A thowt A yeard 

someun talkin', only my yearin' isn't what it used to be, 

an' A warn't sure. 
EMMA. It were Sam Horrocks, Mrs. Ormerod. 



298 LONESOME-LIKE 

SARAH. Yon lad of ould Sal Horrocks as died last year? 'Im 

as isn't reeght in 'is yead? 
EMMA. Aye. 'E's bin askin' me to wed 'im. 
SARAH (incensed). In my 'ouse.'^ Theer's imperence for 

thee, an' tha promised to another lad, an' all. A'd 'ave 

set about 'im wi' a stick, Emma. 
EMMA. 'E didn't knaw about Joe. It made me feel cruel 

like to 'ave to tell 'im. 
SARAH. 'E'U get ower it. Soom lass'U tak' 'im. 

EMMA. A suppose so. 

SARAH (coming down, putting the tea-pot in Emma's hands). 

Well, theer's tea-pot. 
EMMA (meets Sarah right center, examining tea-pot). It's 

beautiful. Beautiful, it is, Mrs. Ormerod. 
SARAH. Aye, it's a bit o' real china is that. Tha'll tak' 

care on't, lass, won't thee? 
EMMA. A will an' all. 
SARAH. Aye. A knaw it's safe wi' thee. Mebbe safer than 

it would be in workus. A can't think well on yon plaice. 

A goa cold all ower at thowt of it. 

[A knock at the door. 
EMMA. That'll be Parson. 
SARAH (crosses left. Smoothing her hair). Goa an' look through 

window first, an' see who 'tis. 
EMMA (puts tea-pot on table. Looking through window). It's 

not th' ould Parson. It's one o' them young curate chaps. 
SARAH. Well, coom away from window an' sit thee down. 

It won't do to seem too eager. Let un knock again if it's 

not th' ould Parson. 

(Emma leaves the window and goes to right of table. The 

knock is repeated. Raising her voice) Coom in so who 

tha art. Door's on latch. 

[Enter the Rev. Frank Alleyne. He is a young curate, a 

Londoner and an Oxford man, by association, training, and 

taste, totally unfitted for a Lancashire curacy, in which he is 

unfortunately no exception. 
ALLEYNE. Good aftemoon, Mrs. Ormerod. 



LONESOME-LIKE 299 

SARAH. Good day to thee. 

ALLEYNE. I'm sorry to say Mr. Blundell has had to go to a 
missionary meeting, but he asked me to come and see you 
in his stead. 

SARAH. Tha's welcoom, lad. Sit thee down. 

[Emma comes below table left. Dusts a chair left of table, 
which doesn't need it, with her apron. Alleyne raises a depre- 
catory hand. SaraK s familiarity , as it seems to him, offends 
him. He looks sourly at Emma and markedly ignores her. 

ALLEYNE. Thank you; no, I won't sit, I cannot stay long. 

SARAH. Just as tha likes. It's all same to me. 
[Emma stays by right of table. 

ALLEYNE. How is it with you, Mrs. Ormerod? 

SARAH. It might be worse. A've lost th' use o' my 'ands, 
and they're takkin' me to workus, but A'm not dead yet, 
and that's summat to be thankful for. 

ALLEYNE. Oh yes, yes, Mrs. Ormerod. The — er — message 
I am to deliver is, I fear, not quite what Mr. Blundell led 
you to hope for. His efforts on your behalf have — er — 
unfortunately failed. He finds himself obliged to give up 
all hope of aiding you to a livelihood. In fact — er — I un- 
derstand that the arrangements made for your removal to 
the workhouse this afternoon must be carried out. It 
seems there is no alternative. I am grieved to be the 
bearer of bad tidings, but I am sure you will find a com- 
fortable home awaiting you, Mrs. — er — Ormerod. 

SARAH. 'Appen A shall an' 'appen A shan't. Theer's no 
tellin' 'ow you'll favour a thing till you've tried it. 

ALLEYNE. You must resign yourself to the will of providence. 
The consolations of religion are always with us. Shall I 
pray with you? 

SARAH. A never were much at prayin' when A were well off, 
an' A doubt the Lord ud tak' it kind o' selfish o' me if A 
coom cryin' to 'im now A'm 'urt. 

ALLEYNE. He wiU Understand. Can I do nothing for 
you? 

SARAH. A dunno as tha can, thankin' thee all same. 



300 LONESOME-LIKE 

ALLEYNE. I am privileged with Mr. Blundell's permission 
to bring a little gift to you, Mrs. Ormerod. {Feeling in 
his coat-tails and bringing out a Testament) Allow me to 
present you with this Testament, and may it help you to 
bear your Cross with resignation. (He hands her the Tes- 
tament. Sarah does not raise her hands, and it drops on her 
lap. Alleyne takes it again and puts it on the table) Ah, 
yes, of course . . . your poor hands ... I understand. 

SARAH. Thankee kindly. Readin' don't coom easy to me, 
an' my eyes aren't what they were, but A'U mak' most 
of it. 

ALLEYNE. You wiU never read that in vain. And now, dear 
sister, I must go. I will pray for strength for you. All 
will be well. Good day. 

SARAH. Good day to thee. 
[Exit Alleyne. 

EMMA. Tha doesn't look so pleased wi' tha gift, Mrs. Or- 
merod. 

SARAH. It's not square thing of th' ould Parson, Emma. 
'E should a coom an' tould me 'isself. Looks hke 'e were 
feart to do it. A never could abide them curate lads. 
We doan't want no grand Lunnon gentlemen down 'ere. 
'E doan't understand us no more than we understand 'im. 
'E means all reeght, poor lad. Sithee, Emma, A've bin 
a Church-goin' woman all my days. A was browt oop 
to Church, an' many's th' bit o' brass they've 'ad out o' 
me in my time. An' in th' end they send me a fine curate 
with a tupenny Testament. That's all th' good yo get 
out o' they folks. 

EMMA. We'm chapel to our 'ouse, an' 'e didn't forget to 
let me see 'e knaw'd it, but A doan't say as it's ony dif- 
ferent wi' chapels, neither. They get what they can outer 
yo, but yo musn't look for nothin' back, when th' pinch 
cooms. {Clock outside strikes three) Sakes alive, theer's 
clock goin' three. My dinner 'uU be nice an' cold. 

SARAH, Eh, what's that, lass? Dost mean to tell me tha's 
bin clemmin' all this time? 



LONESOME-LIKE 301 

EMMA. A coom 'ere straight from factory. 
SARAH. Then tha doesn't move till tha's 'ad summat to eat. 
EMMA. My dinner's ready for me at whoam, Mrs. Ormerod. 
SARAH. Then just look sharp an' get it, tha silly lass. Tha's 

no reeght to go wi'out thy baggin'. 
EMMA (putting her shawl on). All reeght. A'm off. 

[Picking up tea-pot. 
SARAH. Tha's bin a world o' coomfort to me, Emma. It'll 

be 'arder to bear when tha's gone. Th' thowt's too much 

for me. Eh, lass, A'm feart o' yon great gaunt building 

wi' th' drear windows. 
EMMA. 'Appen ma moother 'ull coom in. Tha'll do wi' a 

bit o' coompany. A'U ask her to coom an' fetch thee a 

coop o' tea by an' bye. 

\A knock at the door. 
SARAH. Who's theer.'^ 

SAM (vnthout). It's only me, Mrs. Ormerod. 
EMMA. A do declare it's that Sam Horrocks again. 
SARAH. Sam Horrocks! What can th' lad be after now? 

(Calling) Hast tha wiped thy boots on scraper? 
SAM. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod. 
SARAH. Coom in then. (Emma in left corner. Enter Sam) 

Tak' thy cap off. 
SAM. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod. 
SARAH. What dost want? 
SAM. A've soom business 'ere. A thowt A'd find thee by 

thysel'. A'll coom again. 

[Bolting nervously for the door. 
SARAH. Let that door be. Dost say tha's got business 'ere? 
SAM. Aye, wi' thee. A'd like a word wi' thee private. 

[Emma moves to open door. 
SARAH. All reeght. Emma's just goin' to 'er dinner. 
EMMA (speaking through door). A'll ask my moother to step 

in later on, Mrs. Ormerod, and thank thee very much for 

th' tea-pot. 
SARAH. A'll be thankful if she'll coom. (Exit Emma with 

tea-pot) Now, Sam Horrocks, what's the matter wi' thee? 



302 LONESOME-LIKE 

SAM {dropping the cotton waste he is fumbling with and picking 
it up). It's a fine day for th' time o' th' year. 

SARAH. Didst want to see me private to tell me that, lad? 

SAM. Naw, not exactly. 

SARAH. Well, what is it then? Coom, lad, A'm waitin' on 
thee. Art tongue-tied? Can't tha quit mawlin' yon bit 
o' waste an' tell me what 'tis tha wants? 

SAM (desperately). Mebbe it'll not be so fine in th' mornin'. 

SARAH. A'll tell thee what A'd do to thee if A 'ad the use o' 
my 'ands, my lad. A'd coom aside thee and A'd box thy 
ears. If tha's got business wi' me, tha'd best state it 
sharp or A'll be showin' thee the shape o' my door. 

SAM. Tha do fluster a feller so as A doan't knaw wheer A 
am. A've not been nagged like that theer sin' my ould 
moother died. 

SARAH. A've 'eered folk say Sal Horrocks were a slick un wi' 
'er tongue. 

SAM (admiringly). She were that. Rare talker she were. 
She'd lie theer in 'er bed all day as it might be in yon cor- 
ner, an' call me all th' names she could put her tongue to, 
till A couldn't tell ma reeght 'and from ma left. (Still 
reminiscent) Wonnerful sperrit, she 'ad, considerin' she 
were bed-ridden so long. She were only a little un an' 
cripple an' all, but by gum she could sling it at a feller if 
'er tea weren't brewed to 'er taste. Talk! She'd talk a 
donkey's yead off, she would. 

SARAH (on her mettle). An' A'll talk thy silly yead off an' 
all if tha doan't get sharp to tellin' me what tha wants 
after in my 'ouse, tha great mazed idiot. 

SAM. Eh, but she were a rare un. 

SARAH. The lad's daft aboot his moother. 

SAM (detachedly, looking at window. Pause). Wunnerful 
breeght the sky is, to-day. 

SARAH. Tha great 'ulkin' fool. A'd tak' a broomstick to 
thee if — if A'd the use o' my 'ands. 

SAM. Now, if that isn't just what ma moother used to say. 

SARAH. Dang thy moother. An' I doan't mean no disrespect 



LONESOME-LIKE 303 

to 'er neither. She's bin in 'er grave this year an' more, 
poor woman. 

SAM. A canna 'elp thinkin' to 'er all same. Eh, but she 
were wunnerful. 

SARAH. An' A'd be wunnerful too. A'd talk to thee. A'd 
call thee if A were thy moother an' A'd to live aside o' 
thee neeght an' day. 

SAM {eagerly). Eh, by gum, but A wish tha would. 

SARAH. Would what.? 

SAM. Would coom an' live along wi' me. 

SARAH. Tha great fool, what dost mean? Art askin' me to 
wed thee? 

SAM, A didn't mean to offend thee, Mrs. Ormerod. A'm 
sorry A spoke. A allays do wrong thing. But A did so 
'ope as tha might coom. Tha sees A got used to moother. 
A got used to 'earin' 'er cuss me. A got used to doin' for 
'er and' A've nought to do in th' evenings now. It's ter- 
rible lonesome in th' neeght-time. An' when notion coom 
to me, A thowt as A'd mention un to thee casual. 

SARAH. Dost mean it, Sam Horrocks? Dost tha know what 
tha's sayin', or is tha foolin' me? 

SAM. O' course A mean it. Tha sees A'm not a marryin' 
sort. Th' lasses won't look at me. A'm silly Sam to 
them, A knaws it. A've a slate loose, A shan't never get 
wed. A thowt A'd mebbe a chance wi' yon lass as were 
'ere wi' thee, but hoo towld me A were too late. A allays 
were slow. A left askin' too long an' A've missed 'er. A 
gets good money, Mrs. Ormerod, but A canna talk to a 
young wench. They maks me go 'ot and cowld all over. 
An' when curate towld me as tha was to go to workus, A 
thowt A'd a chance wi' thee. A knaw'd it weren't a big 
chance, because my plaice ain't much cop after what tha's 
bin used to 'ere. A've got no fine fixin's nor big chairs an' 
things as tha used to 'ave. Eh, but A would 'ave loved 
to do for thee as A used to do for ma moother, an' when A 
yeerd thee talkin' now an' callin' me a fool an' th' rest, 
by gum, A just yearned to 'ave thee for allays. Tha'd 



304 LONESOME-LIKE 

fill 'er plaice wunnerful well. A'd just a' loved to adopt 

thee. 
SARAH. To adopt me? 
SAM. Ay, for a moother. A'm sorry tha can't see thy way 

to let me. A didn't mean no offence. 

[Turning to the door. 
SARAH. 'Ere lad, tha tell me this. If A'd said tha might 

tak' me for thy moother, what wouldst ha' done? 
SAM. Why kissed thee, an' takken thee oop in ma arms 

whoam to thy bed. It's standin' ready in yonder wi' clean 

sheets an' all, an' a new quilt from Co-op. A 'opes you'll 

pardon th' liberty o' mentioning it. 
SARAH. A new quilt, Sam? What's colour? 
SAM. Red, wi' blue stripes down 'er. 
SARAH. A'm not a light weight, tha knows. 
SAM. A'd carry thee easy — " Strong in th' arm and weak in 

th' yead." It's an ould sayin', but it's a good un, an' it 

fits. 
SARAH. Wilt tha try, Sam Horrocks? God bless thee, wilt 

tha try, lad? 
SAM. Dost mean it, Mrs. Ormerod? Dost mean tha'll 

coom? Tha's not coddin' a feller, art tha? 
SARAH. No, A'm not coddin'. Kiss me, Sam, my son. 

[He kisses her and lifts her in his arms. 
SAM. By gum, but that were good. A'll coom back fur thy 

box. 
SARAH. Carry me careful, tha great luny. A'm not a sack 

o' flour. 
SAM, Eh, but A likes to year thee talk. Yon was real 

mootherly, it were. 

[Exit through door, carrying her. 

CUETAIN AT CLINK OF LATCH 



MISS TASSEY 

ELIZABETH BAKER 

Elizabeth Baker is one of the younger English dramatists 
who deals in the everyday aspects of modern life. Her 
"Naturalism" — to use an overworked term — is of the un- 
emphatic order; it has nothing in common with the Natural- 
ism that is concerned with the "unpleasant" in and for itself. 
Miss Baker, who began life as a cashier and was for some 
time a professional stenographer and private secretary, has 
made use of her sympathetic and acute power of observa- 
tion, and put into her plays that part of life which she best 
understands. Her first play, "Beastly Pride ", was produced 
at the Croyden Repertory Theater in 1907, The reception 
of the work encouraged Miss Baker to attempt a full-length 
play. " Chains ", her best- known work, was first produced 
by the Play Actors, and later at the Duke of York's Theater 
during Charles Frohman's Repertory season. It was un- 
necessarily adapted, and produced in New York City in 1913, 
where it promptly failed. William Archer said of "Chains ", 
"There is absolutely no 'story' in it, no complication of in- 
cidents, not even any emotional tension worth speaking 
of. ... A city clerk, oppressed by the deadly monotony 
and narrowness of his life, thinks of going to Australia — and 
doesn't go: that is the sum and substance of the action. 
Also, by way of underplot, a shopgirl, oppressed by the deadly 
monotony and narrowness of her life, thinks of escaping it 
by marrying a middle-aged widower — and doesn't do it." 

A minute but sympathetic observation of everyday Hfe is 
the basis of Elizabeth Baker's success as a dramatist. In 
"Miss Tassey ", as in "Chains", the audience is offered the 
spectacle of human aspiration and human disillusion. 



306 MISS TASSEY 



PLAYS 

*Beastly Pride (1907) The Price of Thomas Scott 
Chains (1909) (1913) 

*Miss Tassey (1910) Over a Garden Wall (1915) 

*Cupid in Clapham (1910) Miss Robinson (1920) 
*Edith (1912) 

"Chains" is published by John W. Luce and Company, 
Boston; "Miss Tassey ", "The Price of Thomas Scott ", and 
"Miss Robinson" by Sidgwick and Jackson, London. 

References: William Archer, " Play making ", Small, May- 
nard and Company, Boston. 

Magazines: The Bookman, vol. xxxvi, p. 640, and vol. 
xxxii, p. 136, New York. 



MISS TASSEY 

A PLAY IN ONE ACT 



By ELIZABETH BAKER 



'Miss Tassey" was first produced at London in 1910. 
Characters 



Of Messrs. Trimmer 



Miss Tassey "^ 

Miss Limerton 

Miss Rose Clifton 

Miss Postlewaite 

Sarah Dormitory maid 

Scene: Bedroom No. 65. 
Between nine and ten o'clock. 



COPTMOHT, 1913, BT SiDGWICK AND JaCKSON', LtD. 

Reprinted by permission of the author, and the pubUsher (Sidgwick and Jackson, 
Ltd.) 



MISS TASSEY 

A dormitory at Messrs. Trimmers'. Three beds only, of the 
ordinary hospital cot pattern: two side by side behind the door, 
the third with its foot towards them, the head being almost hid- 
den in a recess. Floor covered with brown oilcloth. Three 
washhand- stands in a row on left. One dressing-table under 
window right. Another at corner left. A card of rules hangs 
on wall. Window is curtainless, icith Venetian blinds half- 
drawn. Photographs are hanging over the two beds facing — 
photographs of young men. A gas-bracket with a frosted globe 
in wall left. 

Someone is in ike bed in the corner, apparently asleep. The 
Maid enters rather noisily and looks round. A voice speaks 
from the bed very faintly, but only just makes a sound. 
MAID (familiarly). Did you speak, miss? {Listens, but there 
is no reply. She goes to door. There is a faint sound 
again) What is it, miss? Do you want anything? {No 
answer. Impatiently she crosses over to the bed) Did you 
speak? 
MISS TASSEY {faintly). Open the window, please. 

[Maid opens the window noisily, then goes out, banging the 
door carelessly. Miss Tassey sinks further into the bed- 
clothes. There is a lo7ig sigh, and the stage is silent for a 
minute or so. Suddenly the door is flung open, and Rose 
Clifton and Miss Postlewaite come in. Rose is a pretty girl 
with a quantity of fair, fluffy hair, and a habit of giggling. 
Miss Postlewaite is obviously older, showy, and rough- 
mannered. They are both in black shop dresses, and Rose 
carries a paper parcel. They are wearing heavily trimmed 
hats, and Miss Postleivaite unpins hers as she comes in. 
ROSE. Wasn't that man funny? {Catching sight of the oc- 
cupied bed and dropping her voice) Oh, bother, Possie, 
she's in, after all. 



310 MISS TASSEY 



MISS POSTLEWAiTE. So she is; another of her headaches. 
Got a headache, Tassey? {No answer) She's off, my 
dear. It's my behef she often has a headache purposely. 

ROSE. What do you mean? 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. She takes drugs, my dear. Her head- 
ache powders, indeed! (Goes over to Miss Tassey and lis- 
tens) She's fair gone, hke a nail. 

ROSE. You don't really think she takes them when she 
hasn't got a headache, do you? That's wicked. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Who says so? Let her sleep, poor old 
thing ! I should take opium if I were her. 

ROSE. It is a nuisance for her to be in now. She said she 
was going out. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Oh, put your dress on and let's see it. 
She won't hear you. She won't hear anything till to- 
morrow morning. 

ROSE. You're sure she won't wake up? 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. What if she did? Who's she to say 
anything? 

ROSB. She's preachy. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. She doesu't preach to you. I never 
heard her. 

ROSE. She looks it. She'd look it now if she saw me dressed 
up. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Dou't think about her. Think of 
Percy over there. He's looking at you. You ought to be 
ashamed dressing up in front of a young man. 

ROSE {giggling). Possie, how can you! Wasn't that young 
man in the shop too awful? Did you see him making eyes? 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Didn't I see youl You've got to take 
care, my girl, with those eyes of yours. I shall tell Percy 
about you. 

ROSE {tossing her head as she opens her parcel and displays a 
pair of scarlet slippers). I don't care. I say, Possie, do 
you think they'll find out to-morrow night? 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. No, why should they? Haven't I done 
it heaps of times? I'll ruffle your bed, but mind you get 



MISS TASSEY 311 



back in good time. Try and come in as if you'd been for 

a walk in the gardens. 
ROSE. I was so awfully frightened last time for fear I'd be 

caught. 
MISS POSTLEWAiTE. Walk in offhand and say good-morning 

to Miss Mason if you meet her. {Laughing noisily) Talk 

about the weather. Oh, you don't know half how to 

manage it! 
ROSE. It was the first time I'd slept out. I should get such 

a wigging if they found out at home. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. Well, if you'rc found out, serve you 

right. It's easy enough. It's worth a risk, anyway, 

ain't it? 
ROSE. Rather. Think, Possie, this time to-morrow night. 

(Stops suddenly, as there is a sigh from the corner bed) Did 

you hear? She'd tell. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. What an infant you are! (Goes over to 

bed) It's nothing, I tell you. She's far away on blue 

mountains now. Besides, she wouldn't tell if she did know. 
ROSE. I believe she would. She thinks I'm too young to 

go out with Percy like this. She told me so. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. What does she know about it? She 

never went out with a fellow in her life, I'll swear. 
ROSE (giggling). Fancy Miss Tassey (lowering her voice) at 

a dance! Can't you see her? Oh my! 

[She goes to a drawer and is about to pick out a dress, when 

the door opens and the Maid comes in. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. I didn't hear you knock, Sarah. 
SARAH. Well, miss, I did. Miss Clifton, you've been sleep- 
ing out without a permit. 
ROSE (taken completely back, stammering). I — er — what do 

you mean? 
SARAH. You slept out on Tuesday night without a permit. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. Who's been telling tales like that to you? 
SARAH. Never mind how I know. You did, Miss Clifton, 

didn't you? 
ROSE. Sarah, don't be cross, and let me off this time. 



312 MISS TASSEY 



SARAH. It's against the rules, miss, and that you know; 

and you'd better not start that sort of thing. I must re- 
port you. 
ROSE. Miss Tassey told you. 
SARAH. Never mind about that. You can't take me in in 

this house. I shall report to Mr. Frederick to-morrow 

morning. 

[Goes. 
MISS POSTLEWAiTE {laughing softly). Never take her in in 

this house! Oh, my word! 
ROSE. You didn't say anything for me, Possie. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. What could I say, you chicken? You 

gave it away with your baby face. 
ROSE. What could I say, when she asked me out straight? 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. Lots. You're only a young bird yet. 
ROSE, But I couldn't have told a — a — could I, Possie? 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. My dear, you'll never get much fun in 

life if you go on like that. 
ROSE. But — a lie, Possie. Why, you wouldn't tell — one 

(looks towards corner bed, whispering) — you wouldn't your- 
self, would you? Something would happen to me if I did. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. Then you're not going out with Percy 

to-morrow night? 
ROSE. Oh, I must. Why shouldn't I? 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. Are you going to ask Mr. Frederick for 

a permit when you go to him to-morrow? 
ROSE. Oh, Possie, I'd forgotten that; and the dance doesn't 

begin till nearly ten, and I have to be back by eleven. 

What shall I do? 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. You Can't do anything except stay 

here. 
ROSE. I won't stay here; I will go. It's all the fault of that 

(lowering her voice) Miss Tassey. She's a preachy old cat. 

Why doesn't she go into some other room? We don't 

want her here. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE (looJciug towards bed). She's never split 

on me. 



MISS TASSEY 313 



ROSE. No, she wouldn't on you. It's me she's afraid of. 

She says I'm young. It isn't her business if I am. I can 

take care of myself. I wish we hadn't got an old thing 

like her in our room. 
MISS POSTLEWAiTE {laughing). I don't suppose she finds it 

beer and skittles with us. She'd go pretty quick if she 

got a chance. 
ROSE. How old is she? 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. Oh, I don't know — something over 

forty. She's getting too old for counter-work. 
ROSE. So I think. She hobbles about the shop, and 

she wears mittens. They call her "Mittens" in her 

shop. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. I know. She'll get the sack soon. Poor 

old thing! 
ROSE. Do you think she will? I wish she'd go. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. They sacked three last week younger 

than her. (Affecting jocularity) I shall have to look out, 

or I shall go next. 
ROSE (thoughtlessly). How old are you? 
MISS POSTLEWAITE (sharply). Never you mind. So you're 

not going with Percy? 
ROSE (ajter a moment's sullen pause). Yes, I shall. (De- 
fiantly) I won't care for anybody. It's too bad, because 

of an old woman like that, to stop my fun. I will go. 

They couldn't have found out from the bed, could they? 

Why didn't old Tassey have a headache to-morrow night? 

That would have been useful then. (Giggles) It's just 

like her to have it at the wrong time. (Takes out her dress 

from the drawer and shakes it out. It is a scarlet and white 

pierette's frock, very short and fluffy) Isn't it sweet? 

[Turning her head to look at the corner bed, and then standing 

so as to hide the frock from it. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. Aiid short. Mind you wear plenty of 

petticoats. 
ROSE. Possie ! 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. You'll waut them in the lancers. 



314 MISS TASSEY 



ROSE. Possie! {taking out scarlet gloves and white hat with 
scarlet pompoms) Look! Everything to match. I do 
love them. 

MISS POSTLEWAiTE (picking up shoes). And the shoes — ^where 
are the stockings.? 

ROSE {shaking out a pair of scarlet and white stripe stockings 
with scarlet bows at top). Here! 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. My word ! are you going to kick as high 
as that? 

ROSE. How awful you are! Of course not; but it's the 
thing to wear with it. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. It's regal. What did you want me to 
do with it? 

ROSE. It's rather big here. {Touching her waist) Just take 
it in for me a httle, will you? 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Better put it on, then, and let me see. 

ROSE. All right. {Turns back to her bed and glances at cor- 
ner) Suppose she should wake! 

MISS POSTLEWAITE {easily). She won't, silly. But I'll tell 
you what I'll do. I'll hang my mask from the bracket 
and swing it over a chair in front of her. Then, if she 
wakes, we'll tell her we were afraid for the light on her eyes. 
[Laughs. 

ROSE. Yes, do. A horrid old thing she is, to go and give 



me away 



[Miss Postlewaite hangs a dark cloak over the gas-bracket and 
over a chair, so that it screens the corner bed. Meantime 
Rose has slipped off her black dress, and is seen in petticoat 
and bodice. She has been at back of stage near her bed. Miss 
Postlewaite comes over to her with the dress, which she slips 
on and walks over to the mirror on left. 

ROSE. Can't see. {Crosses to right, then suddenly stops. 
Gives a little scream) Possie! 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. What's up? 

ROSE {pointing to black-draped corner). That! It's — it's 
horrid — so — she is so quiet. I 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Rubbish. {Looking curiously) It's 



MISS TASSEY 315 



something like a bed in a hospital, when there's going to 
be an operation, isn't it? 

ROSE. You're sure — she's asleep? 

MISS posTLEWAiTE (impatiently). Of course. Come, let me 
do you up. 

[Stands behind her while she fastens her dress. Rose gives 
little involuntary glances at the corner. 

ROSE. She sleeps awfully quiet, doesn't she? 

MISS POSTLEWAITE (laughing gently). What do you want her 
to do? Snore? 

ROSE (refusing to smile) . It's the — powders, isn't it? (Wail- 
ing) I do wish she wasn't in our room! 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. What a baby you are ! Come over here 
and put on the hat. (They cross the room, and Rose appears 
to forget. She puts the hat on at a saucy angle) Wait till 
Percy sees you in that ! Only don't let him crush it. 

ROSE (embarrassed). Possie, how you talk! 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Well, he might want to. Turn up your 
petticoat. 

ROSE (intently regarding herself in looking-glass). It does suit 
me, doesn't it? Where are the stockings? 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Here. 

[Rose sits sideways to stage front, but back to the draped cor- 
ner, while Miss Postlewaite kneels and puts on the stockings. 

ROSE. Do you think old Tassey ever went to a fancy-dress 
dance? 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Shouldn't wonder. 

ROSE. It doesn't seem as if she could. Do you think she 
ever had a 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Percy? Perhaps — most likely. 

ROSE. She doesn't look like it. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Neither will you when you're forty-five. 

ROSE. Forty -five — oh, what an age ! 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Just you make hay while the sun shines. 

ROSE (coquettishly) . I don't want to be married yet. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. My advicc is, take him while you can 
get him. 



316 MISS TASSEY 



ROSE. Percy isn't the only one. 

MISS P09TLEWAITE. There are plenty of 'em, but they don't 
always ask you. Plenty of flirts in the world, and don't 
you forget it. You be M .:. Percy, Rosey, when yov can. 
ROSE {confused). Oh, T '-'tt (There is a minute 

of silence while Mi; ■ v^; -« r,?^' *'-^<f 

Rose tries to look held 'T'.<:-'> ■ . ,', 

POfeTLEW/ ITE. That seems to worry you. biiaii we gi? 
il /U'tc the sitting-room? 

I wonder why old Tassey never married? 
POSTLEWAITE. As I'vc been saying to you, not to do — 
probably missed her chance. 
[shivering). Isn't this dress low? 
osTLEWAiTE. Not too low for Pcrcy. 
R(J Possie! You're too awful for anything. The win- 

\ i open. 
L^ ^EWAiTE (rising). I'll shut it. 

A -. .jj I 'ly). No, dop't — ^^ don't make a noise. You might 

Ma . x'OSTLEWAITE. NonSCUSe. 

[Climbs up and shuts the window with a bang. Rose stands 
staring at the draped corner and as Miss Postlewaite steps 
down there is a distinct pause. 

ROSE (in a whisper). You shouldn't. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE (also in a whisper). Don't be a little fool. 
(Aloud) What on earth is wrong with you? 

ROSE. Look and see — if she's awake. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE (stepping forward, but pausing). I'm not 
going to do anything of the kind. Sarah has upset you, 
Rosey, and no mistake. Come over here. (She drags 
Rose over to left, and examines the fastening. Pulling the 
dress) Can you bear it as tight as that? 

ROSE (panting). Oh — no! 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Nothing as tight as Percy will squeeze 
you. How's that? 

ROSE. That's better. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE (meditating). I must take it in three- 



MISS TASSEY 317 



quarters of an inch there, and graduate it down. That will 

be all right. 
ROSE (hesitating). What kind of powders does old Tassey 
- ii te? 
MISS POSTLEWAT'T'T^ "^^ gain! (Still at the dress 

fasten^ -"-"-^nd her while she fash • Tyders.? Oh, I forget. 

Some^'^'^luntarv qlances at the ,^^n^ ],ke that. 
ROSE. They must be very strong. « ' - 

MISS POSTLEWAiTE. If you once take those tlijr<gs,''3it he^ , 

got to keep on doing it. They lose their power in no e. 
ROSE. I should have thought she would have started Y^' "^n 

you banged the window. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. I didn't bang it. I shut it in t<" he )r- 

dinary way. If you're as nervy as this to-morrov;^P^o ht 

you'll frighten Percy off. Then there's another ^^^ ^ ce 



gone. 



t. 



ROSE (suddenly turning and taking Miss Postlewa '"'. 

You don't think, do you, that Tarsey (whisper' -P your/. 
tending, just listening to us and th a 

MISS POSTLEWAITE, What an idea! If you don't stana-vcill, 
how can I fit the thing properly? Do keep quiet. Why 
on earth should she listen? What is there to hide? 

ROSE. About my sleeping out — I never thought of it be- 
fore. That's what she's doing. Go and shake her, 
Possie, and see. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. You stupid, you! (Rose breaks away 
from her, and steps forward towards the corner. She stops 
suddenly, however, and there is silence) Go and shake her 
yourself if you don't believe me. I tell you, she's dead 
asleep with that stuff. I know. 

ROSE. She — Possie. I wish 

[The door opens quietly, and Miss Limerton, a tall girl 
dressed for walking, comes in. Neither of them hear her. 

MISS LIMERTON. Is Miss Tassey (Rose interrupts with 

a scream. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE (turning quickly). Oh — you! 

MISS LIMERTON. What's the matter with Miss Clifton? 



318 MISS TASSEY 



ROSE. You — made me jump. I didn't hear you. 

MISS LiMERTON. What on earth are you decked out like 

that for? 
ROSE. It's a dress for a ball I'm going to. 
MISS LIMERTON. Gay, isn't it? Not to say snippy. Is Miss 

Tassey (Stops at sight of the bed in shadow) Is she ill? 

MISS posTLEWAiTE. Another headache. 

ROSE. She's been taking a powder. 

MISS LIMERTON. Headache? I didn't know she had one. I 

saw her after shop. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. Well, she's got it since. She's been in 

bed hours. 
ROSE. I don't believe she had a headache, Possie. Miss 

Limerton says she hadn't. She's pretending, and she'll 

tell of me. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. Shut up, you little fool ! (To Miss Lim- 
erton) She will have it that Tassey isn't asleep and is 

listening. 
MISS LIMERTON. What have you been doing, Rosey, that 

you're so uncomfortable? 
ROSE. Only — only — trying on this (looking down at her 

dress). 
MISS LIMERTON. I should think the sight would make 

Tassey 's head good. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. You Can tell the truth to Limerton, 

Rosey. (To Miss Limerton) She has been caught sleep- 
ing out, and she thinks Tassey told. And she's going to 

sleep out again to-morrow. 
ROSE. S'sh! 
MISS LIMERTON. Well, if you take that conscience to the 

dance you won't enjoy yourself much. Besides, Tassey 

wouldn't tell. 
ROSE. You don't know her. She wouldn't tell of you and 

Possie. She would about me. 
MISS LIMERTON. See how she loves you and looks after your 

morals. (They all keep involuntarily, as it were, farthest 

from the corner bed) It's funny I didn't know she had a 



IVnSS TASSEY 319 



headache. When she does have them they usually come 

on in the afternoon, and she can hardly walk. 
inss POSTLEWAiTE. She's too old for the work. 
MISS LiMERTON. She Went out quickly afterwards, and I 

met her later as I came back from the hairdresser's, 
anss POSTLEWAITE. Did you try Grigano? 
MISS LIMERTON. Yes. He did it very well. Look how he's 

dressed it. (She takes off her hat and displays an elaborate 

coiffure) I wish I could do it like that. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. That's not a difficult style. I'll come 

and show you sometime, if you like. 
MISS LOiERTON. Do. (Glancing towards comer) What a 

difference it makes in a room if there's someone ill in it. 
ROSE. She's always ill. The room's always quiet. 
MISS LIMERTON. The headache must have come on quickly. 

It's her news, of course. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. What UCWS? 

MISS LIMERTON. Didn't she tell you? 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Got the sack at last? 

MISS LIMERTON. Yes. I wanted to see her about it. Poor 

old thing! 
MISS POSTLEWMTE. Poor old thing! WTiat will she do? 
ROSE. Is she going to leave? (To Miss Limerton) Will you 

come to this room? 

MISS LIMERTON. I might. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Do try. Come and help me with this 

child. I'm sick of her eternal Percy. 

[Miss Limerton smiles at Rosey, who disregards it. 
MISS LIMERTON. I Wanted to ask Tassey what she will do. 

She hasn't any friends (they all look towards the corner and 

pause) nor relations. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. Where did she go Sundays? 
MISS LIMERTON. Stayed here. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Stayed here! Lively! Poor old thing! 
MISS LIMERTON. WTiat Can she do? She can't have any 

money. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. Didn't she insure? 



320 MISS TASSEY 



MISS LiMERTON. I expect so, but it wouldn't keep her long. 

She'll have to go into one room for a bit, and then 

MISS POSTLEWAiTE. And then {They glance at the corner 

bed) Poor old thing ! 
MISS LIMERTON. I wouder she wasn't tempted to take too 

much. 

{Stops. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. She will one of these days. She'll do 

it with those drugs of hers. 
ROSE {irritably). Why don't you speak louder? 
MISS LIMERTON. Are you sure she takes drugs? 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. Positive. I fouud her out one day. 

She's been taking some to-night. I knew it when I 

looked at her. 
MISS LIMERTON {hesitating). You have been and looked? 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. YeS. 

MISS LIMERTON. I didn't know she kept drugs in her box. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. She knows all about them, too. 
MISS LIMERTON. She — Usten. 

[Puts up her hand. 
ROSE {terrified). What is it? 
MISS POSTLEWAITE. Listen to what? 
MISS LIMERTON. You Can't hear her breathing? 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. How should you 

ROSE. I said she was putting it on. She always breathes 

louder than that. 

[They listen. Rose shivers, and Miss Limerton rises. 
MISS LIMERTON {looking at Miss Postlewaite, who rises also). 

You don't think 

[They both step forward, and Miss Postlewaite goes farther 

than her companion. They both pause. The room is very still. 
ROSE {clinging close to Miss Limerton). She is asleep, isn't 

she? Possie said {Miss Limerton takes no notice of 

her as the two elder girls go nearer) Don't — don't — keep 

away! Oh, what is it? 
MISS POSTLEWAITE {moving back and speaking in an angry 

whisper). Shut up! J 



MISS TASSEY 321 



ROSE. She's listening. I know she is. 

[With an evident effort Miss Postlewaite steps behind the 
draped chair. She pauses, and Miss Limerton and Rose, the 
latter clinging to her companion, wait in a dead silence. Miss 
Postlewaite steps fonvard and is hidden. Rose buries her 
face and gasps hysterically. After a moment or two Miss 
Postlewaite comes into the room rather quickly. Miss Limer- 
ton looks at her, but no word passes. Rose looks terrified from 
one to the other. 

MISS LIMERTON. I'll go foF Miss Mason or Sarah. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE (unable to stand without trembling, sits down 
dizzily). She — it all happened 

ROSE (hysterically). What is it.f* Is she — what is the 
matter? 

MISS POSTLEWAITE (shaking her arm roughly). Can't you be 
quiet now? (Rose looks helplessly at her, incongruous in 
her scarlet finery) Don't you understand? 

ROSE. She wasn't asleep all the time — she wasn't — she was 

— she was (Bursts into gasping sobs) And all the 

while — and I was talking like that. 

MISS LIMERTON (gently). Rose, come, there is nothing to fear. 

ROSE (seizing her by the arm, unable to control herself, yet afraid 
to scream too loud). I knew she heard me; I kneAv she did. 
I said she did. She wasn't asleep. And I was wearing 
this (fingering her dress), and laughing, and calling her 

names, and all the while 

[Trails into sobs. 

MISS POSTLEWAITE. Lcave her with me — or I'll take her 
away, 

MISS LIMERTON. You go for somcbody. I'll stop with her. 
(Smoothing Rose's hair) Rose. 
[Miss Postlewaite goes. 

ROSE. I said how quiet it was, didn't I? I knew she 
wasn't asleep, but I thought she was listening, and I said 
she was going to tell tales, and all the time 

MISS LIMERTON. S'sh! it didn't matter. She doesn't know 
what you said. 



322 MISS TASSEY 



ROSE, Do you think she doesn't? Are you sure? She was 

so quiet, and Possie and I putting on this (fingering her 

dress like one distraught) and laughing, and saying she was 

pretending. 
MISS LiMERTON (gently taking the girVs hand) . She is finished 

with it now. Come and look at her, and then (Rose 

draws hack shuddering) She looks so restful. Come. 
ROSE (refusing to move) . No, no — no ! Don't drag me 

there (looking with fearful curiosity towards the corner) 

Did she take it — herself? 
MISS LIMERTON. She must have taken an overdose. 
ROSE (unheeding). She took it herself; and all the while — 

and she was unhappy — and I 

[Sarah, the maid, enters quickly, folloioed hy Miss Postlewaite. 

She goes over to the bed. 
MISS POSTLEWAITE (in low toues to Miss Limerton). Miss 

Mason is out. They've gone for the doctor. [Rose, fas- 
cinated, is watching the corner. 
MISS LIMERTON. Come away. 

[Sarah steps back, and Rose falls on her knees beside her bed, 

quivering and sobbing and hiding her head. Sarah steps 

back into the room and sees her. 
SARAH. Take her out. Miss Limerton. 
ROSE (stretching her arms over to the bed towards Sarah). I 

said she — she (she cannot say the name) told you about me. 

I didn't mean it. I thought 

SARAH. We are not thinking about you just now. Miss 

Clifton. 
MISS LIMERTON. Come, Rose, Sarah understands. 
ROSE (brokenly to Miss Limerton, as the latter leads her out). 

I didn't mean anything. I said she listened and told tales, 

and all the time 

[They go out. 
SARAH. Draw down the blind, Miss Postlewaite. 

[The blind is drawn. 

CURTAIN 



MAKESHIFTS 

GERTRUDE ROBINS 

Gertrude Robins, who died in 1917, was better known 
as an actress than as a dramatist. Her plays, which must 
have been the products of her leisure time, were written 
to fill certain definitely felt needs. Miss Robins belongs, 
at least so far as her earlier plays are concerned, to the 
"Manchester School." 

"As you know," declared Miss Robins (I quote from an 
interview in The Era of February 1, 1913), "I lead a very 
active life, and my interests range from Small Farming and 
Aviation — yes, I have had two Biplane Gliders built for me 
— to the Art of the Marionette. I have written several 
successful one-act plays. My village comedy 'Pot -Luck' 
. . . originally played by Buckinghamshire Players (a 
body of local amateurs which I organized), I afterwards 
produced at the Palace Theatre. . . . 'Pot-Luck' is still 
successfully running in the provinces. Speaking of the prov- 
inces, there is, I think, more than a grain of truth in the 
adage: 'What Manchester thinks today London does to- 
morrow ', for it was in Cottonopolis, at Miss Horniman's 
TJieatre, that my early plays were first produced. . . . My 
one-act play 'Makeshifts' was presented before that clever 
play 'Hindle Wakes', at the Playhouse; and in book form 
it has already reached several editions ... it has now been 
played over a thousand times in Great Britain, Australia, 
and Canada, and is to be presented in America by Miss 
Horniman's company. ... In the intervals between golf 
and gardening, acting and my varied literary work, I con- 
tribute to a certain London Daily articles chiefly relative to 
Country Life. . . . 



324 MAKESHIFTS 



"A few years ago I took Honors in Modern Languages 
at Oxford. My mother is German and my father Irish; and 
perhaps this blend tended to induce me, at an early age, to 
take life seriously. At the outset I thought I would take up 
one of the learned professions, but I discovered that for a 
woman to follow such a career the drawbacks of sex are 
strongly defined. I ultimately decided that the theatrical 
profession offered a wider and fairer scope for a woman's 
activities. Hence it came about that, through the kind 
offices of my good friend, Miss Lillah McCarthy, I was intro- 
duced to the late Wilson Barrett, who engaged me to play 
in his Repertoire Company on tour. After useful ' schooling ' 
in the provinces and playing lead in Wilson Barrett's last 
play, 'Lucky Durham', I joined Mr. James Welch, and 
played in 'When Knights Were Bold' at Wyndham's. Sub- 
sequently I played lead with Mr. Granville Barker in his 
daring Anglo- Austrian 'Anatol' sketches at the Palace and 
the Little Theatre. I lately played Miss Irene Vanbrugh's 
part in 'Rosalind' upon the occasion of the latter's Command 
performance at Sandringham; and, now, as the heroine of 
that merry and clever farce, ' Officer 666 ', at the Globe, I 
have my first experience of acting in an American production. 
And, after all, 'Variety is the spice of life', and the pursuit 
of experience is the playwright's prerogative." 



PLAYS 

♦Makeshifts (1908) *The Home Coming (1912) 

♦Realities (1911) Old Jan (1912) 

*Pot-Luck ri911) *Loving as We Do (1914) 

*Cupid and the Mouse (1911) The Plaything (1914) 

*Van Dam of Volendam *The Return (1914) 

(1911) *After the Case (1914) 

*The Point of View (1910) *'Ilda's Honourable (1914) 
♦Lancelot and the Leading 

Lady (1911) 



MAKESHIFTS 325 



"Makeshifts" and "Realities" are published together by 
T. Werner Laurie, London; "Loving as We Do ", "The Re- 
turn", "After the Case", and " Tlda's Honourable" to- 
gether, as "Loving as We Do", by the same; and "Pot- 
Luck" by Samuel French, New York. 



MAKESHIFTS 

A LOWER MIDDLE-CLASS COMEDY 



By GERTRUDE ROBINS 



"Makeshifts" was first produced at Manchester in 1908. 

Characters 

Caroline Parker, a Suburban young woman of about 30. 
Nervous mannerisms. Brown hair much frizzed. Dressed 
in a mauve silk tight-fitting blouse and dark-green skirt 

Dolly Parker, her younger sister, aged 28, Wearing a dark 
blue dress with cheap lace collar. Inclined to brusquerie 
and superficial sharpness 

Mr. Thompson, the Parkers' lodger. Chemists' Assistant. 
Tall, thin, and rather shy 

Mr. .Albert Smythe, Stockjobber's Clerk. Short, sandy- 
haired. Moustache with waxed ends, shiny face. General 
blatant appearance 



Reprinted from "Makesliifts" and " Realities ", published by T. Werner Laurie, 
London, by permission of the executors of the late Gertrude Robins. 

All rights of "Makeshifts" and "Realities" are reserved. 

No performance of these plays may take place until a written perniiasion has been 
obtained. 

The fee for each and every amateur representation of either play is one guinea. 
If both plays are performed on the same occasion the inclusive fee is one guinea and 
a half. 

Fees payable in advance to Miss Gertrude Robins, % T. Werner Laurie, Ltd., 
Clifford's Inn, London, E.G. 



MAKESHIFTS 

The Parkers^ sitting-room. Large table right centre. Window 
left with small table and ferns. Lace curtains, and canary in 
cage. Sideboard up right with cruet-stand, biscuit-box, silver 
teapot, etc. Chairs round centre table. Fireplace back left 
centre with overmantel, mirror, clock and ornaments. Easy 
chairs on either side of fireplace. 

Caroline sewing at back of table right. Dolly reading novel- 
ette by fire left. 
CAROLINE. You didn't forget to order the soap from 

Brown's, did you, Dolly? 
DOLLY. No — I mean yes — I did order it. 

[Pause. 
CAROLINE {turning lamp up). Did you tell them we must 

have it by nine? 
dol,JjY (impatient). Oh — yes. Don't worry. 
CAROLINE. It's very well to say "Don't worry", but you 
forget Mrs. Hunt's coming at eight, and there's an awful 
lot of washing this time. (Pause) I shall have to get up 
at half-past six to get the boiler going properly. (Pause) 
Mrs. Cox called this afternoon. 
DOLLY. Oh, what did she want? 

CAROLINE. Nothing. Only wasted my time. (Pause) All 
her pipes burst last week — quite spoilt one of her drawing- 
room chairs, she says. 
DOLLY. How exciting. 

CAROLINE. You are grumpy to-night, Dolly. 
DOLLY. Well, I'm tired. 

CAROLINE. So am I, but I don't see that's any reason for 
being disagreeable. (Pause) Oh, Dolly, isn't it a nuisance, 
we've got to have some coal in, and the last lot aren't paid 
for yet, and they're 28s. now. 



330 MAKESHIFTS 



DOLLY. Well I suppose we shall have to use the fifteen 

shillings I'd saved towards a new jacket. 
CAROLINE. I wish we needn't do that. You haven't had a 

new one for three years. 
DOLLY. What's it matter? There's no one to notice what 

I wear. 
CAROLINE. Well, perhaps you might lend it, and then I'll 

give you some of Mr. Thompson's money at the end of 

the week, and when Ma gets her dividend she must make 

up the rest. (Pause) Well, then, will you order half a 

ton to-morrow? 
DOLLY. All right. 
CAROLINE. Ma's been so diflScult to-day, she quite tired 

me out. 
DOLLY. Anything fresh? 
CAROLINE. Oh, I don't know. She's got some new idea 

that she's being neglected, or that we don't confide in her 

or something, 
DOLLY. Well, that's better than when she gets mopey and 

retrospective, and talks about her unhappy past, 
CAROLINE. Still, Dolly, she has had a hard time of it. 
DOLLY. Well, haven't we all, and isn't it going to be so 

world without end, amen? 
CAROLINE. I don't know, I'm sure. (Pause) Oh, Mrs. 

Cox says those new people two doors off are an awfully 

funny lot. (Dolly puts book in her lap and listens) They 

haven't any carpets, and they don't touch butcher's 

meat, and their servant actually has her meals with the 

family. (Dolly laughs) Mrs. Cox thinks they must be 

Socialists or Christian Scientists. There are some funny 

people in the world. 
DOLLY. Yes, aren't there? Why, I was talking to that new 

teacher we've got to-day, and, my dear, if you please, she's 

a Suffragette. 
CAROLINE. Oh! 
DOLLY. Of course, I didn't say what I thought of them, but 

she's evidently deadly serious. It beats me how people 



MAKESHIFTS 331 



can make such idiots of themselves. A lot of good a vote 
would be to me. 

CAROLINE, But I think there may be something in it, you 
know. (Pause) By-the-bye, did you wash up the tea- 
things, Dolly.? 

DOLLY. Oh, bother! No. I'll do it when I get Ma's sup- 
per. (Putting her hook down and looking up) Gracious, 
why, you've changed your blouse. (Meaningly) I didn't 
know anyone was coming this evening. 

CAROLINE. Don't be so — so — I suppose I can put something 
fresh on if I like, after spending the whole day in that 
stuffy, pokey Idtchen, stewing over the hot fire, and wash- 
ing up greasy saucepans! I'd just like you to try it for a 
bit and see how you like it. 

DOLLY. I shouldn't like it at all, my dear. But then, I 
don't suppose you'd enjoy seven hours a day with a lot of 
horrid, noisy, fidgety children driving you mad. Why, 
you'd chuck it up the first row you got into with the 
Inspector. 

CAROLINE. No. I expect it must be pretty sickening. 

DOLLY. I wouldn't mind so much if there were any chance 
of things ever being different. But there's nothing to look 
forward to. It will always be the same. (Looking into 
fire) I shall go on hammering DOG dog, CAT cat, 
and twice eleven are twenty-two, and twice twelve are 
twenty-four, into wooden-headed brats, and you'll be 
skivvy and housekeeper combined, and look after Ma, and 
wait on the lodger, and scrape and contrive to make both 
ends meet, till we're both too old for anything. 

CAROLINE. Oh, don't be so depressing, Doll. It gets on 
my nerves. Besides, you never know, something nice 
might happen. Why, one of us might — might — might 
even get married! 

DOLLY. You might, you mean. Fat lot of men wanting to 
marry a school-teacher ! Bless'm — they'd be afraid they'd 
get Euclid instead of eggs and bacon for breakfast, and 
that their buttons would never be sewn on. Oh, no. 



332 MAKESHIFTS 



Men fight shy of girls like me. They think we're too 
clever; they like nice, domesticated, homely girls. (Pause) 
Besides, what chance do we have of ever getting to know 
fellows? We've no father and no brothers. How should 
I get to know men at a girls' school, or you sticking at 
home all day.^^ Why, we don't see a man to speak to from 
one week's end to another, except Mr. Thompson. And 
there's precious little romance about our lodger as far as 
I am concerned, even though he is a chemist's assistant. 

CAROLINE (rising and putting on half-finished blouse which 
she has been making). Oh, but he's a godsend to us. I 
don't know how we should have managed the rent without 
his thirteen shillings every week. (Crossing over towards 
fireplace) Besides, he's nice and quiet in the house, and 
very considerate, and he doesn't come home late or tipsy, 
like anyone else we might have got. (After trying to see 
back of blouse in glass) Dolly, you might just tell me how 
this fits on the shoulder. (Dolly rises) It's such a bother. 
(Looking into mirror over fire) I'm afraid I've cut the neck 
out too far; I shall have to join a bit on, or put some lace 
over it. 

DOLLY (standing and adjusting back of blouse). No, it only 
wants taking up a little. Give me a pin. 
[Noise of door banging slightly heard off right. 

CAROLINE (starting). Who's that? (Turning round to face 
Dolly) It isn't eight, is it? 

DOLLY (meaningly). It's only Mr. Thompson — who else do 
you think it is? (Gentle tap at door) There he is. Bother. 
(Loudly) Come in! 

CAROLINE. But I can't be seen like this! For goodness 
sake 

DOLLY. Thompson doesn't count. You needn't worry 
about him. (Loudly) Come in! 

THOMPSON (entering nervously right. Pauses just inside door). 
Good-evening, Miss Caroline; (pause) good-evening. Miss 
Dolly. (Pause) Busy as usual, 
[With a nervous smile. 



MAKESHIFTS 333 



CAROLINE {very politely). Oh, yes, Mr. Thompson, there is 
always something to do. Won't you sit down.'' 

THOMPSON {hastily). Oh, no, I'm afraid — I — I don't 
think I can, thank you. I'm — er — just going out 
again to the post, and — er — I've — er — promised 
to help Mr. Standing at the dispensary this evening. 
{Pause) It's left off raining. I've just taken the liberty 
of bringing you ladies a few sweets. I hope you won't 
mind. 
[Edges hag of sweets on to table. 

CAROLINE. Oh, but, Mr. Thompson, you shouldn't; really, 
you're too good. {Dolly sits again with her book) But 
thank you very much, all the same. It is kind of you — 
isn't it, Dolly? 

DOLLY. Yes, very. Thanks awfully. 
[Still reading. 

THOMPSON {nervously, gazing at Caroline). Oh, not at all. 
I hope they're the sort you like. {Backing to door right) 
Good night — good night. 
[Exits awkwardly right. 

DOLLY. Oh, that man is a trial — he does worry me. 

CAROLINE {crossing to Dolly with sweets). Well, I don't 
suppose you'll be above eating his sweets. There aren't 
so many men who take the trouble to give us things, any- 
how. 

[Crossing back to table right centre, she sits down to work on 
blouse again. 

DOLLY. Give you things, you mean. 

CAROLINE. Don't be so snappy, for goodness sake. Look 
at that lovely pencil-case Mr. Phillips gave you at Easter. 
You know you were awfully pleased about it. 

DOLLY. Yes, and I've never heard the last about it from 
you and Ma since. There's a fat lot of excitement about 
a present from a Sunday-School superintendent, isn't 
there? 

CAROLINE. Oh, Dolly, you are always so discontented. 
We do know some nice people after all. 



334 MAKESHIFTS 



DOLLY. I like your idea of some nice people. A tame 
chemist's assistant who's our lodger, and a bald-headed 
Sunday-School superintendent. 

CAROLINE. But, Dolly, you haven't — you didn't — you're 
not reckoning — why, you've forgotten — there's Mr. 
Smythe. 

DOLLY. Oh, yes, to be sure. Anyway, youWe not likely to 
forget him. 

CAROLINE. Well, he's something, isn't he? And I expect 
we shall get to know some of his friends. 

DOLLY. We! [Sniffs. 

CAROLINE. Oh, by the way, shall we have some coffee to- 
night if he — I mean Mr. Smythe — should happen to drop 
in? It would be rather nice. 

DOLLY. Oh, then you are expecting someone. 

CAROLINE. Oh, I'm not certain — something was said about 
it. (She leaves off sewing and turns round to her sister to 
talk to her) But, Dolly, I do wish you wouldn't be so 
sharp with him if he does come; it isn't nice of you. You 
always go on reading when he's in the room: it's uncom- 
fortable for him, and besides, it isn't polite. 

DOLLY. Why shouldn't I? You know jolly well that he 
doesn't come to see me. (Pause) I should have thought 
you two would like to have all the talking to yourselves. 
If that isn't being polite, what is? 

CAROLINE (resuming her work). Well, don't let's have a 
row about it. (Pause) What's upset you to-day, Dolly? 

DOLLY. Nothing. (Throwing hook on floor and gazing into 
fire) Only it's pretty sickening to be twenty-eight and 
feel that you're growing old and dull, with never any real 
fun or amusement like other girls — girls who are taken to 
theatres and dances, and wear pretty things, and get mar- 
ried and have nice houses, and gardens, and servants, and 
don't have to worry about every halfpenny they spend. 
It's all so hopeless, because neither of us can do anything 
different. With the skimpy, rotten education we got 
when we were kids, and no training to do anything in 



MAKESHIFTS 335 



particular, we are expected to earn our own living — you as 
genteel general servant, and I as an assistant teacher of 
infants. And so here we are, hopeless and helpless, and 
we might as well be on a desert island. 

CAROLINE. Ah, well, it's no good talking. {Rising and puts 
her work on sideboard at back) I may as well go and put 
Ma's supper on the tray, (About to exit right. Stops as she 
hears loud knock at front door. Turning to Dolly) That must 
be him — Mr. Smythe — I'm sure it is; he's got such a firm 
knock, hasn't he? (Knock) You go, Dolly, there's a dear. 

DOLLY. You go yourself. You know you are dying to. 
(Violent rat-tat) Look sharp, or he'll have the place down. 
[Knock. Caroline exits hurriedly right. Dolly rises and 
quickly arranges herself at glass. She sits down again, 
listens, but appears absorbed in her book as door opens. 
Caroline enters radiant, followed by Smythe. 

CAROLINE (right center). Dolly, here's Mr. Smythe. Isn't 
he naughty; he says he's been knocking for ten minutes. 
I'm sure you can't have, really! 

DOLLY (left). Well, he's had time to collect his thoughts 
then. (Rising) How do you do? 
[Extends hand awkivardly. 

SMYTHE. Well, you girls, how are you going along? Thought 
you'd be by yourselves to-night as per usual (standing back 
to fire) and I might as well drop in and have a bit of a 
warm-up. (Turning round and warming hands at fire) 
Crumbs, it's jolly cold out to-night. (As he turns he sees 
chocolates on mantelshelf) What ho! Chocolates! 
[Takes some and continues munching throughout scene. 

CAROLINE. Oh, you poor, dear man. Come and sit in the 
easy chair. We were just going to have some coffee, 
weren't we, Dolly? I'll run and fetch it. You'd like a 
cup, wouldn't you, it will warm you up. 
[Kneels down and puts coals on fire. 

SMYTHE. Oh, I don't mind if I do. You are very cosy here, 
you girls. What I mean to say — you know how to look 
after yourselves all right. Trust you for that! What! 



336 MAKESHIFTS 



DOLLY. Well, there's no one else to if we don't. 
[Sitting right by table. 

SMYTHE. Quite right. Always keep your optic on number 
one, that's what I say, eh? {Lighting a cigarette) Now, 
what about that cup of coffee you was making such a song 
about? 

CAROLINE. It won't be a minute. Dolly, mind you enter- 
tain Mr. Smythe whilst I'm gone. 

SMYTHE. Oh, we'll look after ourselves all right. But 
mind don't you leave us alone too long. (Exit Caroline 
laughing. Watching her out) Nice girl, your sister. A bit 
of all right, she is. Something kind of homely about her 
that I like. She'd make any chap that married her jolly 
comfortable. Now, you know, you're different, I reckon. 

DOLLY. Yes, it would be easier for me to make some people 
I know uncomfortable. 
[At table right. 

SMYTHE. Oh, I say, you know if you are so sharp you'll cut 
your face one of these days. And it don't always pay to 
be so clever. What I mean to say is, it isn't every chap 
likes it. Of course, I don't mind myself. I don't take 
any notice of what you say. No, what I meant was, 
you're not like your sister because you're more brainy — 
always got a book in your hand; but you are just a bit 
too smart, it would put some chaps quite off, I tell you. 

DOLLY. That would worry me! 

SMYTHE. There you go again! But you can't afford to be 
so stuck-up about it as all that. What I mean to say is, 
you'll want some chap to marry you some day, won't 
you? — and that isn't the way to set about it. 

DOLLY. I'm not so anxious. 

SMYTHE (chuckling). Oh, I say! Well, I think it's time that 
you ought to be. This independence, earning your own 
living, and all that, is all very fine when you're young; but 
what I say is — what's it going to lead to — what about 
when you're old? That's where it comes in. It's then 
you want a man to look after you and buy you new hats 



MAKESHIFTS 337 



and frocks, and a nice little home with a servant to do 
the work, and nothing to do but enjoy yourself, ain't it? 

DOLLY (a little softer). Yes, I know, but there's nobody 
likely to want to marry me, and besides — 

SMYTHE. Oh, but it isn't so bad as all that, you take ray 
word. You're good-looking, you know, and you've a 
decent figure and all that, and so long as you don't bite a 
chap's head off every time he opens his mouth you needn't 
be left on the shelf. Not but what you ought to be keep- 
ing your eyes open, and watching out for a probable 
starter. Of course, it's none of my business, and I don't 
want to interfere, but I take a sort of interest in you 
girls. Especially you, you know. You're clever, and can 
understand a fellow's ideas, and that's what a man likes. 

DOLLY (slowly). But if you think so much of marriage why 
don't you — er — practise what you — er 

SMYTHE (with elephantine coyness). Oh, well, we'll have to 
see how things turn out. Anyway, I've got a rise this 
year, and going along very nicely now, and my wife what 
may be won't have to go out to work, you can bet on that. 
You can furnish so cheap, too, nowadays. What I mean 
to say is, a couple of quid down and you get the whole 
outfit, piano and all. What do you think of that, eh? 
(Winking) You wouldn't think twice about it if a chap 
like me come along with a proposition like that, would you? 

DOLLY (breathlessly). It all depends. 

SMYTHE. Quite so! Quite so! But when there's a chance 
of a windfall of that sort it's as well to be prepared, ain't 
it. (Crosses to Dolly left. Month full of chocolates, hands 
in pockets, and portentous air) Now, Dolly, no larks, 
strictly on the Q.T., and between ourselves — I came in 
this evening to ask you — to tell you — something very 
particular 

DOLLY. Well, Mr. Smythe? 

SMYTHE. Oh, well, there now. Never mind — another time, 
p'r'aps. Your sister will be coming in in a minute. 
[Turning to go up stage. 



338 MAKESHIFTS 



DOLLY (rises excitedly). Oh, no, she won't. What is it? 
SMYTHE (awkwardly). Well — I mean to say — you see, it's 

like this. I don't want you to think I'm making too bold, 

but what I want to ask you is this 

DOLLY. Yes? 

SMYTHE. Is there anything up between you and old Phillips 

— you know, the bald-headed chap what sometimes takes 

your Sunday-School class? Not my business, of course, 

but 

DOLLY. Good gracious — the idea! I should think not, 

indeed. (Disappointedly.) Had that got anything to do 

with what you were going to ask me? 
SMYTHE. Oh, well, I say, I don't want you to be offended. 

He's not a bad chap, and I take a sort of interest in you. 

I know a bit about Phillips, and he's not half a bad catch, 

and not nearly so old as he looks. And his people are all 

right, too, and there's a tidy bit of money in that family. 

(Self-consciously) I know his sister rather well, you 

know. Well, what I meant to say was — I was thinking — 

Anyway, you might 

DOLLY. Yes? 

[Enter Caroline with coffee, sugar, milk, etc., on tray right door. 
SMYTHE (going up stage to fire). Oh, here's the coffee, and 

it ought ter be all right, too! 

[Dolly crosses left centre. 
CAROLINE. Wait till you've tried it. 

[She lifts up one lump of sugar for Smythe's approval. 
SMYTHE. Go on. (Caroline puts lump in cup and extends 

second piece in tongs) Same again. (Caroline repeats 

business with third lump) Ditto repeato. 

[Caroline holds up fourth lump. 
CAROLINE. My word, you have got a sweet tooth! 
SMYTHE. Sweet tooth, sweet nature! 
CAROLINE (giggling). Oh, Mr. Smythe! 

[Handing him cup. Voice heard calling: "Dolly! Dolly!" 
DOLLY. Oh, bother, there's Ma! Didn't you take her sup- 
per up, Carrie? I suppose I must go! 



MAKESHIFTS 339 



SMYTHE. Remember me to the old lady, won't you? 

DOLLY. Oh, there's not much chance of forgetting you. 
[Exits, laughing. 

SMYTHE. Your Dolly is a fair knock out, she is. Mind you, 
I like to see a girl with a bit of go in her. But she's a 
little bit too ikey, she is. Now, you're more up to my 
ideas. I mean to say you're more the sort of girl to make 
a man comfortable. You see, a chap don't want a girl to 
jump down his throat every time he opens his mouth. 
You're much more what I call affectionate and womanly. 

CAROLINE (coyly). Oh, what nonsense! 
[Crosses to fire left and sits down. 

SMYTHE. You know what it is. I can't make it out why 
you didn't get married. Nice homely girl like you. 

CAROLINE. Well, nobody's ever asked me. I've only known 
such a few men. 

SMYTHE. Well, you do surprise me. Now, with me, you 
know, it's just the opposite. It's taken me all my time 
to keep the girls off. (With smug satisfaction — and sweeping 
gesture) Why, they are all over me. If I was to tell you 
the names of some of the girls what have thrown themselves 
at me and fairly asked me to marry them — well, it would 
stagger humanity, it would. You take my word. 

CAROLINE. Oh, Mr. Smythe, you don't say so. How could 
they.? 

SMYTHE (patronizingly). Oh, well, of course, you see, they 
are a different sort to what you are. I don't mind a bit 
of cuddlin' and squeezin' and all that, just to pass the time. 
That's all right in its way, but as for marrying that sort — 
no thanks, says your humble servant. I'm not taking 
any. But you, now, you're all right, or I shouldn't be in 
quite so often. A fellow that goes about among Society 
at all has got to look after himself these days. 

CAROLINE. But we're always very pleased to see you, Mr. 
Smythe. 

SMYTHE. Oh, that's all right. I like to cheer you up a bit. 
Musi be doosid slow for you girls, here by yourselves. 



340 MAKESHIFTS 



And as a matter of fact I dropped in to-night on purpose 
to see you about something very special. 

CAROLINE {nervously). Not really? 

SMYTHE. Well, now, it's like this, you see. I'm pretty tired 
of knockin' about alone, livin' in digs by myself, and no 
one to look after me or to talk to, and I've been turning 
it over in my mind 

CAROLINE. Yes? 

SMYTHE. You see, there's so many ways in which a fellow 
gets done in. Now, there's the washing. I reckon they 
charge me a shilling or one-and-sixpence a week more than 
they would if there was someone to look after things for 
me — and the scuttles of coals they say I use ! All at six- 
pence a time, too! And they charge a shocking lot for 
mending which I shouldn't have to pay for at all. Mind 
you, they always say that it doesn't cost a bit more for 
two to live than one. Now, what's your idea? 

CAROLINE {eagerly). Oh, I'm sure it can't cost more — with 
a little management. It's wicked for them to charge you 
for mending. I've often thought how lonely it must be 
for you. 

SMYTHE. Lonely! Why, that isn't the word. It's rotten, 
all by myself, it's enough to give anyone the pip; and you 
know I'm fond of society, too. 

CAROLINE. And just fancy if you were ill, with no one to 
look after you properly! 

SMYTHE. Yes, that's what I've been thinking lately, when 
I'm a bit off colour. Now, what sort of a husband do you 
reckon I'd make? 

CAROLINE. I'm sure I don't know — you see — well, I've 

never thought about it before, but do you really mean 

{Gentle knock at door. Enter Thompson. 

THOMPSON {nervously). Oh, I beg your pardon. Miss Caro- 
line. I didn't know you were engaged. I thought you 
were alone. I've only come to bring you this evening's 
paper. I thought you might like to see it. 

SMYTHE. Oh, I say, that's just what I wanted to see. 



MAKESHIFTS 341 



(Crossing over to him. Takes paper and opens it. Takes 
out chocolate from bag in pocket and throws it across table 
towards Thompson) Have a chocolate, old boy? 

THOMPSON {stiffly). No, thanks. I don't care for sweets. 

SMYTHE. All the more for us, then. 
[Taking chocolate back and eating it. 

CAROLINE {to Thompson). Won't you sit down.? 

SMYTHE. Yes, go on, make yourself at home, old chap. 
[Crossing back to fire. 

THOMPSON. No, thanks very much, I must be going, really. 
I didn't mean to intrude. It's come on to rain again. 
Good night. 

SMYTHE. Well, so long, old boy, {Exit Thompson. Smythe 
whistles meaningly) So that's it, is it.'' 

CAROLINE. What is, Mr. Smythe? I don't know what you 
mean. 

SMYTHE. Oh, yes, you do. You know right enough. You 
quiet girls, you're a hot lot, you are. {Pointing at her) 
I saw him making googoo eyes at you. When's the 
weddin'? 

CAROLINE. Oh, don't be such a tease! Mr. Thompson, in- 
deed, the idea! 

SMYTHE. He does look a bit of a mug. But you never know 
with some of these dark horses. Still, a bird in the 'and 
is worth two in the bush. And after all, you never knows 
your luck, do you — eh, what? 

CAROLINE. How absurd you are! 

SMYTHE. Oh, but I'm not jokin'. I'm not really. Now, 
I'm not a man to talk about myself. You know that, 
don't you? 

CAROLINE. Yes. Well? 

SMYTHE. But this evening — I tell you straight — I've got 
a bit of news that will make you sit up. 

CAROLINE. Well, tell me. 

SMYTHE. Well, I've been talkin' to you about gettin' mar- 
ried, haven't I? 

CAROLINE {nervously). Yes, yes. 



342 MAKESHIFTS 



SMYTHE. And you think it's a sound proposition, now don't 

you? 
CAROLINE (rather faintly) . Ye-es, Mr. Smythe. 
SMYTHE. Well, I think so too, so we're agreed, ain't we? 

CAROLINE. Yes, certainly, but 

SMYTHE. Well, what I wanted to say was — I mean ter say 

— you see it's like this — I 

[Enter Dolly, noisily. 

DOLLY. I've settled Ma all right for the night. She's got 
her supper, and she's had her medicine. So I hope I can 
have a little peace now. (Sitting down at left of table) If 
I shan't be in the way. 

SMYTHE. There she goes again! Well, you are a girl! 
Bring your chair up to the fire. Make yourself at home, 
there's plenty of room. (She comes up to fire and sits in 
armchair) That's right. Well, now, look here. I might 
as well tell the pair of you what I came to see you for this 
evening. 

DOLLY and CAROLINE (together). Oh, but really! 

SMYTHE. Well, I say you are a funny lot. Why not now? 
It's what I came for. (Caroline and Dolly look appre- 
hensive) W^ell, then, without any more beatin' about the 
bush, it's like this. Yours truly — Albert J. Smythe, Esq. 

— is going — is going to be married. There! 
BOTH. Oh ! 

SMYTHE. Is goin' to be married! Well, what d'you think 
of that now — eh ? (Pause) How's that for a bit of news ? 
I bet you won't guess who it is, but she's a winner, she is. 
You take my word. (Pause) Well, ain't either of you 
going to wish me luck? 

CAROLINE. But — but 

DOLLY. But who? 

SMYTHE. Well, I don't mind telling you — but not a word — 
not a word to a soul now. We want to keep it quiet for 
a bit. The happy bride-to-be is Miss Rose Phillips, 
Sidney Villa, Saint George's Square — the sister of the gent 
what you and I was mentioning a little time back. (Ex- 



MAKESHIFTS 343 



pressive wink at Dolly. Pause) Ah — I thought that 
would surprise you. 

DOLLY (dowly). Well, I'm sure I congratulate you, Mr. 
Smythe. 

CAROLINE (slowly). I hope you'll be very, very happy, Mr. 
Smythe. 

SMYTHE. Oh, I'll watch that. Rose isn't half a bad sort. 
Not fussy or clever, but understands a fellow, and what's 
more, she's got a useful little bit in the bank, too, that her 
grandmother left her, and that's always handy. Oh, yes, 
what I mean to say is, I think I'm doing the right thing 
for myself this time. Every man ought to get married, 
and we've all got to come to it sooner or later. I'll bring 
my girl round to see you one Saturday afternoon, but don't 
you tell her too much about me. She's a bit jealous, you 
know. I'm rather a popular chap with the ladies, some- 
how. And I'll have to be careful, what with a Sunday- 
School superintendent for a brother-in-law. (Looks at 
watch) Lord love a duck! Half -past ten, and I promised 
to fetch Rose from her Choral Society. Of course, she'll 
have to give up all that sort of gadding about once she's 
married and settled down; but still, as she says, it's a pity 
to waste the subscription now. Well, so long, girls. 
(Shakes hands with the two girls) Thought I'd cheer you 
up a bit to-night. I'll pop in again when — when I haven't 
much to do. Ta-ta. (Caroline rises) You needn't see 
me out. I don't mind shutting the door myself. 
[Exit Smythe. Caroline stands by fire, gazing into it. Dolly 
picks up her book. They remain silent. Front door bangs. 
Dolly puts down book and crosses to sideboard, where she gets 
another smaller one and note-book, with which she sits at 
table centre facing the audience. Head resting on her hands, 
elbows on table. Caroline wipes away a tear. 

CAROLINE. What are you doing, Dolly? 

DOLLY. I'm preparing for Sunday-School class. I've got to 
take it to-morrow, and I want the lesson to be specially 
good 



344 MAKESHIFTS 



CAROLINE. Why specially good? 

DOLLY. Oh, because — because — well, for one thing, Mr. 
Phillips will be back from his holidays, and — er 

CAROLINE. Oh, I see. (Caroline crosses to Dolly, puts hands 
on her shoulders and kisses her) Good night, dear. 

DOLLY (looking up, surprised). Why — you've been crying. 

CAROLINE. Oh, I've got a bit of a headache, I think. 
[Crosses left centre. 

DOLLY. But what's the matter? 

CAROLINE. Only something I was thinking of. It's nothing. 
(Brushes tears away, looks at clock) I ve got an idea. 
There's just time (she crosses the room towards door, speak- 
ing as she goes) before the shops shut to run round and get 
a haddock for Mr. Thompson's breakfast — he's very fond 
of fish. I remember he said he liked haddock better than 
anything. 

[Exit hurriedly. Dolly remains watching Caroline go off. 
Turns to book again. Looks up. Suddenly closes book, 
pushes it from her, and collapses, her head buried on her arms. 

SLOW CURTAIN 



THE MAKER OF DREAMS 

OLIPHANT DOWN 

Oliphant Down was one of the younger English drama- 
tists whose promising career was ended by the war. Born 
in 1885 at Bridge water, Somersetshire, he was educated at 
Warminster School in Wiltshire. He came to London in 
1902, and was articled to a firm of accountants. After a 
few years he gave up business and became a journalist and 
writer. 

"On the outbreak of the war," writes Mr. Harold Veasey, 
Mr. Down's cousin, to whom I am indebted for most of my 
facts, "he enlisted in the 10th Hussars, but later obtained 
a commission in the 4th Battalion, Royal Berkshire Regi- 
ment. In the first battle of the Somme he was wounded at 
Poizzieres and for very gallant work was awarded the Mili- 
tary Cross; he was also mentioned five times in despatches. 
He returned to France and was present at much severe 
fighting in 1916 and 1917. On May 23, 1917, he was killed 
near Havrincourt Wood. His was a most lovable nature, 
that abhorred war and its attendant horrors. He loved 
everything that was beautiful in life. The realm of fantasy 
and charm was his delight, and the keynote of his writings. 
... It is remarkable that such a man should have become 
such a brilliant and gallant soldier." 

"The Maker of Dreams" is precisely the sort of fantasy 
that a man of Oliphant Down's nature must have delighted 
in writing. This little Pierrot play met with immediate 
success on its initial performance. During the past nine 
years it has been performed by professionals and amateurs 
wherever English is spoken. 



346 THE MAKER OF DREAMS 

Mr. Down's other plays, with the exception of a farce 
("The Quod Wrangle"), are artistically akin to "The 
Maker of Dreams." 

PLAYS 

*The Maker of Dreams *The Quod Wrangle (1914) 

(1911) Tommy-by-the-way (1918) 

*The Dream Child (1913) Bal Masque (1921) 

"The Maker of Dreams" is published by Gowans and 
Gray, London and Glasgow; "The Quod Wrangle" by 
Samuel French, New York, 



THE MAKER OF DREAMS 

A FANTASY IN ONE ACT 



By OLIPHANT DOWN 



"The Maker of Dreams" was first produced at Glasgow 
in 1911. 

Characters 

Pierrot 

Pierrette 

The Manufacturer 



COFTBIGHT, 1913, BY OlIPHANT DowK. 

Reprinted by permission of the publisher, Messrs. Gowans and Gray, London. 

Entered at the Library of Congress, Washington, U. S. A. 

The performing rights of this play are fully protected. 

All applications for permission to perform "The Maker of Dreams" in the British 
Empire (except Canada) must be addressed to Messrs. Samuel French, Limited, 26 
Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C. 2, or their authorized representatives. 
For permission to perform in America and Canada, to Samuel French, 28 West 38th 
Street, New York City, U. S. A. 

The fee for each ajid every representation of the play by amateurs in the British 
Empire (except Canada) is thirty shillings; in America and Canada, eight dollars. 
These sums are payable in advance and no performance may take place unless a written 
permission has first been obtained. 

The terms for performance by professionals can be ascertained on application. 

The music for "The Maker of Dreams" is obtainable from Messrs. French at 5s. 
net in London and 1 dollar 50 cents in New York. Band parts can be hired by ar- 
rangement. 



THE MAKER OF DREAMS 

Evening. A room in an old cottage, with walls of dark oak, 
lit only by the moonlight that peers through the long, low case- 
ment window at the back, and the glow from the fire that is 
burning merrily on the spectator's left. A cobbled street can be 
seen outside, and a door to the right of the window opens di- 
rectly on it. Opposite the fire is a kitchen dresser with cups and 
plates twinkling in the firelight. A high-backed oak settle, as 
though afraid of the cold moonlight, has turned its back on the 
window and warms its old timbers at the fire. In the middle 
of the room stands a table with a red cover; there are chairs on 
either side of it. On the hob, a kettle is keeping itself warm; 
whilst overhead, on the hood of the chimney-piece, a small lamp 
is turned very low. 

A figure fiits past the window and, with a click of the latch, 
Pierrette enters. She hangs up her cloak by the door, gives a 
little shiver and runs to warm herself for a moment. Then, 
having turned up the lamp, she places the kettle on the fire. 
Crossing the room, she takes a table-cloth from the dresser and 
proceeds to lay tea, setting out crockery for two. Once she goes 
to the windoiv and, drawing aside the common red casement- 
curtains, looks out, but returns to her work, disappointed. She 
puts a spoonful of tea into the teapot, and another, and a third. 
Something outside attracts her attention; she listens, her face 
brightening. A voice is heard singing: 

"Baby, don't wait for the moon, 
She is caught in a tangle of boughs; 

And mellow and musical June 

Is saying 'Good night' to the cows." 

[The voice draws nearer and a conical white hat goes past the 
window. Pierrot enters. 



350 THE MAKER OF DREAMS 

PIERROT (throwing his hat to Pierrette). Ugh! How cold it is. 

My feet are like ice. 
PIERRETTE. Here are your slippers. I put them down to 

warm. 

[She kneels beside him, as he sits before the fire and commences 

to slip off his shoes. 
PIERROT (singing). 

" Baby, don't wait for the moon, 
She will put out her tongue and grimace; 

And mellow and musical June 

Is pinning the stars in their place." 

Isn't tea ready yet? 
PIERRETTE. Nearly. Only waiting for the kettle to boil. 
PIERROT. How cold it was in the market-place to-day! I 

don't believe I sang at all well. I can't sing in the cold. 
PIERRETTE. Ah, you'rc like the kettle. He can't sing when 

he's cold either. Hurry up, Mr. Kettle, if you please. 
PIERROT. I wish it were in love with the sound of its own 

voice. 
PIERRETTE. I belicve it is. Now it's singing like a bird. 

We'll make the tea with the nightingale's tongue. (She 

pours the boiling water into the teapot) Come along. 
PIERROT (looking into the fire). I wonder. She had beauty, 

she had form, but had she soul? 
PIERRETTE (cutting bread and butter at the table). Come and 

be cheerful, instead of grumbling there to the fire. 
PIERROT. I was thinking. 
PIERRETTE. Come and have tea. When you sit by the fire, 

thoughts only fly up the chimney. 
PIERROT. The whole world's a chimney-piece. Give people 

a thing as worthless as paper, and it catches fire in them 

and makes a stir; but real thought, they let it go up with 

the smoke. 
PIERRETTE. Cheer up, Pierrot. See how thick I've spread 

the butter, 
PIERROT. You're always cheerful. 



THE MAKER OF DREAMS 351 

PIERRETTE. I try to be happy. 

PIERROT. Ugh ! 

[He has moved to the table. There is a short silence, during 
which Pierrot sips his tea moodily. 

PIERRETTE. Tea all right? 

PIERROT. Middling. 

PIERRETTE. Only middling! I'll pour you out some fresh. 

PIERROT. Oh, it's all right! How you do worry a fellow! 

PIERRETTE. Heigh-ho ! Shall I chain up that big black dog? 

PIERROT. I say, did you see that girl to-day? 

PIERRETTE. Whereabouts? 

PIERROT. Standing by the horse-trough. With a fine air, 
and a string of great beads. 

PIERRETTE. I didn't see her. 

PIERROT. I did, though. And she saw me. Watched me 
all the time I was singing, and clapped her hands like 
anything each time. I wonder if it is possible for a woman 
to have a soul as well as such beautiful colouring. 

PIERRETTE. She was made up! 

PIERROT. I'm sure she was not! And how do you know? 
You didn't see her. 

PIERRETTE. Perhaps I did see her. 

PIERROT. Now, look here, Pierrette, it's no good your being 
jealous. When you and I took on this show business, we 
arranged to be just partners and nothing more. If I see 
any one I want to marry, I shall marry 'em. And if you 
see any one who wants to marry you, you can marry 'em. 

PIERRETTE. I'm uot jcalous! It's absurd! 

PIERROT {singing abstractedly). 

"Baby, don't wait for the moon, 

She has scratched her white chin on the gorse; 
And mellow and musical June 

Is bringing the cuckoo remorse." 

PIERRETTE. Did you see that girl after the show? 
PIERROT. No. She had slipped away in the crowd. Here, 
I've had enough tea. I shall go out and try to find her. 



352 THE MAKER OF DREAMS 

PIERRETTE. Why don't you stay in by the fire? You could 

help me to darn the socks. 
PIERROT. Don't try to chaff me. Darning, indeed ! I hope 

life has got something better in it than darning. 
PIERRETTE. I doubt it. It's pretty much the same all the 

world over. First we wear holes in our socks, and then 

we mend them. The wise ones are those who make the 

best of it, and darn as well as they can. 
PIERROT. I say, that gives me an idea for a song. 
PIERRETTE. Out with it, then. 
PIERROT. Well, I haven't exactly formed it yet. This is 

what flashed through my mind as you spoke: 

{He runs up on the table, using it as a stage) 

"Life's a ball of worsted. 

Unwind it if you can. 
You who oft have boasted 

(He pauses for a moment, then hurriedly, in order to gloss over 
the false accenting) 

That you are a man." 

Of course that's only a rough idea. 
PIERRETTE. Are you going to sing it at the show? 
PIERROT (jumping down from the table). You're always so 

lukewarm. A man of artistic ideas is as sensitively 

skinned as a baby. 
PIERRETTE. Do Stay in, Pierrot. It's so cold outside. 
PIERROT. You want me to listen to you grumbling, I suppose. 
PIERRETTE. Just now you Said I was always cheerful. 
PIERROT. There you are; girding at me again. 
PIERRETTE. I'm sorry, Pierrot. But the market-place is 

dreadfully wet, and your shoes are awfully thin. 
PIERROT. I tell you I will not stop in. I'm going out to 

find that girl. How do I know she isn't the very woman 

of my dreams? 
PIERRETTE. Why are you always trying to picture an ideal 

woman? 



THE MAKER OF DREAMS 353 

PIERROT. Don't you ever picture an ideal man? 

PIERRETTE. No, I try to be practical. 

PIERROT. Women are so unimaginative! They are such 
pathetic, motherly things, and when they feel extra 
motherly they say, "I'm in love." All that is so sordid 
and petty. I want a woman I can set on a pedestal, and 
just look up at her and love her. 

PIERRETTE {speaking very fervently) . 

"Pierrot, don't wait for the moon. 

There's a heart chilling cold in her rays; 

And mellow and musical June 
Will only last thirty short days." 

PIERROT. Oh, I should never make you understand! Well, 
I'm ofiF. 

[As he goes out, he sings, sidelong, over his shoulder in a 
mocking tone, "Baby, don't wait for the moon." Pierrette 
listens for a moment to his voice dying away in the distance. 
Then she moves to the fireplace, and begins to stir the fire. 
As she kneels there, the words of an old recitation form on her 
lips. Half unconsciously she recites it again to an audience 
of laughing flames and glowing, thoughtful coals. 

PIERRETTE. 

"There lives a maid in the big, wide world. 

By the crowded town and mart. 
And people sigh as they pass her by; 

They call her Hungry Heart. 

For there trembles that on her red rose lip 

That never her tongue can say. 
And her eyes are sad, and she is not glad 

In the beautiful calm of day. 

Deep down in the waters of pure, clear thought. 

The mate of her fancy lies; 
Sleeping, the night is made fair by his light 

Sweet kiss on her dreaming eyes. 



354 THE MAKER OF DREAMS 

Though a man was made in the wells of time 

Who could set her soul on fire, 
Her life unwinds, and she never finds 

This love of her heart's desire. 

If you meet this maid of a hopeless love. 

Play not a meddler's part. 
Silence were best; let her keep in her breast 

The dream of her hungry heart." 

(Overcome by tears, she hides her face in her hands. A slow, 
treble knock comes on the door; Pierrette looks up wonder- 
ingly. Again the knock sounds.) 
Come in. 

{The door swings slowly open, as though of its own accord, 
and without, on the threshold, is seen The Manufacturer, 
standing full in the moonlight. He is a curious, though 
kindly-looking, old man, and yet, with all his years, he does 
not appear to be the least infirm. He is the sort of person 
that children take to instinctively. He wears a quaintly cut, 
bottle-green coat, with silver buttons and large side pockets, 
which almost hides his knee breeches. His shoes have large 
buckles and red heels. He is exceedingly unlike a prosperous 
manufacturer, and, but for the absence of a violin, would be 
mistaken for a village fiddler. Without a word he advances 
into the room, and, again of its own accord, the door closes 
noiselessly behind him. Pierrette jumping up and moving 
towards him) Oh, I'm so sorry. I ought to have opened 
the door when you knocked. 

MANUFACTURER. That's all right. I'm used to opening doors. 
And yours opens much more easily than some I come across. 
Would you believe it, some people positively nail their 
doors up, and it's no good knocking. But there, you're 
wondering who I am. 

PIERRETTE. I was woudcriug if you were hungry. 

MANUFACTURER. Ah, a woman's instinct. But, thank you, 
no. I am a small eater; I might say a very small eater. 
A smile or a squeeze of the hand keeps me going admirably. 



THE MAKER OF DREAMS 355 

PIERRETTE. At least you'll sit down and make yourself at 
home. 

MANUFACTURER (moving to the settle). Well, I have a habit 
of making myself at home everywhere. In fact, most 
people think you can't make a home without me. May I 
put my feet on the fender? It's an old habit of mine. I 
always do it, 

PIERRETTE. They say round here: 

"Without feet on the fender 
Love is but slender." 

MANUFACTURER. Quite right. It is the whole secret of the 
domestic fireside. Pierrette, you have been crying. 

PIERRETTE. I belicve I have. 

MANUFACTURER. Bless you, I know all about it. It's 
Pierrot. And so you're in love with him, and he doesn't 
care a little bit about you, eh? What a strange old world 
it is! And you cry your eyes out over him. 

PIERRETTE. Oh, uo, I don't often cry. But to-night he 
seemed more grumpy than usual, and I tried so hard to 
cheer him up. 

MANUFACTURER. Grumpy, is he? 

PIERRETTE. He doesn't mean it, though. It's the cold 
weather, and the show hasn't been playing so well lately. 
Pierrot wants to write an article about us for the local 
paper by way of an advertisement. He thinks the editor 
may print it if he gives him free passes for his family. 

MANUFACTURER. Do you think Pierrot is worth your tears? 

PIERRETTE. Oh, ycs ! 

MANUFACTURER. You know, tears are not to be wasted. 
We only have a certain amount of them given to us just 
for keeping the heart moist. And when we've used them 
all up and haven't any more, the heart dries up, too. 

PIERRETTE. Picrrot is a splendid fellow. You don't know 
him as well as I do. It's true he's always discontented, 
but it's only because he's not in love with any one. You 
know, love does make a tremendous difference in a man. 



356 THE MAKER OF DREAMS 

MANUFACTURER. That's true enough. And has it made a 
difference in you? 

PIERRETTE, Oh, yes! I put Pierrot's slippers down to 
warm, and I make tea for him, and all the time I'm happy 
because I'm doing something for him. If I weren't in 
love, I should find it a drudgery. 

MANUFACTURER. Are you sure it's real love? 

PIERRETTE. Why, ycs! 

MANUFACTURER. Every time you think of Pierrot, do you 
hear the patter of little bare feet? And every time he 
speaks, do you feel little chubby hands on your breast 
and face? 

piERRETTK (fervently) . Yes! Oh, yes! That's just it! 

MANUFACTURER. You'vc got it right enough. But why is it 
that Pierrot can wake up all this poetry in you? 

PIERRETTE. Bccausc — oh, bccausc he's just Pierrot. 

MANUFACTURER. "Becausc he's just Pierrot." The same 
old reason. 

PIERRETTE. Of course, he is a bit dreamy. But that's his 
soul. I am sure he could do great things if he tried. And 
have you noticed his smile? Isn't it lovely! Sometimes, 
when he's not looking, I want ever so much to try it on, 
just to see how I should look in it. (Pensively) But I 
wish he'd smile at me a little more often, instead of at 
others. 

MANUFACTURER. Ho! So he smiles at others, does he? 

PIERRETTE. Hardly a day goes by but there's some fine lady 
at the show. There was one there to-day, a tall girl with 
red cheeks. He is gone to look for her now. And it is 
not their faults. The poor things can't help being in love 
with him. (Proudly) I believe every one is in love with 
Pierrot. 

MANUFACTURER. But supposing one of these fine ladies were 
to marry him? 

PIERRETTE. Oh, they'd never do that. A fine lady would 
never marry a poor singer. If Pierrot were to get married, 
I think I should just . . . fade away . . . Oh, but I 



THE MAKER OF DREAMS 357 

don't know why I talk to you like this. I feel as if I had 

known you for a long, long time. 

[The Manufacturer rises from the settle and moves across to 

Pierrette, who is now folding up the white table-cloth. 
MANUFACTURER (very slowly). Perhaps you have known me 

for a long, long time. 

[His tone is so kindly and impressive that Pierrette forgets 

the table-cloth and looks up at him. For a moment or two he 

smiles back at her as she gazes, spellbound; then he turns 

away to the fire again, with the little chuckle that is never far 

from his lips. 
PIERRETTE (taking a small bow from his side-pocket). Oh, 

look at this. 
MANUFACTURER (in mock alarm). Oh, oh, I didn't mean you 

to see that. I'd forgotten it was sticking out of my pocket. 

I used to do a lot of archery at one time. I don't get much 

chance now. 

[He takes it and puts it back in his pocket. 
PIERROT (singing in the distance). 

"Baby, don't wait for the moon, 
She is drawing the sea in her net; 

And mellow and musical June 
Is teaching the rose to forget." 

MANUFACTURER (in a whispcr as the voice draws nearer). Who 
is that? 

PIERRETTE. Pierrot. 

[Again the conical white hat flashes past the window and 
Pierrot enters. 

PIERROT. I can't find her anywhere. (Seeing the Manufac- 
turer) Hullo! Who are you? 

MANUFACTURER. I am a stranger to you, but Pierrette 
knew me in a moment. 

PIERROT. An old flame perhaps? 

MANUFACTURER. Truc, I am an old flame. I've lighted up 
the world for a considerable time. Yet when you say 
"old ", there are many people who think I'm wonderfully 



358 THE MAKER OF DREAMS 

well preserved for my age. How long do you think I've 

been trotting about? 
PIERROT (testily, measuring a length with his hands). Oh, 

about that long. 
MANUFACTURER. I suppose being funny all day does get on 

your nerves. 
PIERRETTE. Pierrot, you needn't be rude. 
MANUFACTURER (anxious to be alone with Pierrot). Pierrette, 

have you got supper in? 
PIERRETTE. Oh, I must fly! The shops will all be shut. 

Will you be here when I come back? 
MANUFACTURER (bustUng her out). I can't promise, but I'll 

try, I'll try. 

[Pierrette goes out. There is a silence, during which the 

Manufacturer regards Pierrot with amusement. 
MANUFACTURER. Well, friend Pierrot, so business is not 

very brisk. 
PIERROT. Brisk! If laughter meant business, it would be 

brisk enough, but there's no money. However, I've done 

one good piece of work to-day. I've arranged with the 

editor to put an article in the paper. That will fetch 

'em. (Singing) 

"Please come one day and see our house that's down 

among the trees, 
But do not come at four o'clock for then we count the bees, 
And bathe the tadpoles, and the frogs, who splash the 

clouds with gold. 
And watch the new-cut cucumbers perspiring with the 

cold." 

That's a song I'm writing. 
MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, if you had all the money in the 

world you wouldn't be happy. 
PIERROT. Wouldn't I? Give me all the money in the world 

and I'll risk it. To start with, I'd build schools to educate 

the people up to high-class things. 



THE MAKER OF DREAMS 359 

MANUFACTURER. You dream of fame and wealth and empty 
ideals, and you miss all the best things there are. You 
are discontented. Why? Because you don't know how 
to be happy. 

PIERROT (reciting). 

"Life's a running brooklet. 

Catch the fishes there, 
You who wrote a booklet 

On a woman's hair." 

(Explaining) That's another song I'm writing. It's the 
second verse. Things come to me all of a sudden like that. 
I must run out a third verse, just to wind it up. 

MANUFACTURER. Why don't you write a song without any 
end, one that goes on forever? 

PIERROT. I say, that's rather silly, isn't it? 

MANUFACTURER. It all depends. For a song of that sort 
the singer must be always happy. 

PIERROT. That wants a bit of doing in my line. 

MANUFACTURER. Shall you and I transact a little business? 

PIERROT. By all means. What seats would you like? There 
are the front rows covered in velvet, one shilling; wooden 
benches behind, sixpence; and, right at the back, the two- 
penny part. But, of course, you'll have shilling ones. 
How many shall we say? 

MANUFACTURER. You don't know who I am. 

PIERROT. That makes no difference. All are welcome, and 
we thank you for your courteous attention. 

MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, I am a maker of dreams. 

PIERROT. A what? 

MANUFACTURER. I make all the dreams that float about this 
musty world. 

PIERROT. I say, you'd better have a rest for a bit. I expect 
you're a trifle done up. 

MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, Pierrot, your superior mind can't 
tumble to my calling. A child or one of the "people" 
would in a moment. I am a maker of dreams, little 



360 THE MAKER OF DREAMS 

things that glide about into people's hearts and make 
them glad. Haven't you often wondered where the 
swallows go to in the autumn? They come to my work- 
shop, and tell me who wants a dream, and what happened 
to the dreams they took with them in the spring. 

piERRET. Oh, I say, you can't expect me to believe that. 

MANUFACTURER. When flowers fade, have you never won- 
dered where their colours go to, or what becomes of all the 
butterflies in the winter? There isn't much winter about 
my workshop. 

PIERROT. I had never thought of it before. 

MANUFACTURER. It's a kind of lost property oflfice, where 
every beautiful thing that the world has neglected finds its 
way. And there I make my celebrated dream, the dream 
that is called "love." 

PIERROT. Ho! ho! Now we're talking. 

MANUFACTURER. You don't belie ve in it? 

PIERROT. Yes, in a way. But it doesn't last. It doesn't 
last. If there is form, there isn't soul, and, if there is 
soul, there isn't form. Oh, I've tried hard enough to be- 
lieve it, but, after the first wash, the colours run. 

MANUFACTURER. You Only got hold of a substitute. Wait 
until you see the genuine article. 

PIERROT. But how is one to tell it? 

MANUFACTURER. There are heaps of signs. As soon as you 
get the real thing, your shoulder-blades begin to tingle. 
That's love's wings sprouting. And, next, you want to 
soar up among the stars and sit on the roof of heaven and 
sing to the moon. Of course, that's because I put such 
a lot of the moon into my dreams. I break bits off until 
it's nearly all gone, and then I let it grow big again. It 
grows very quickly, as I dare say you've noticed. After a 
fortnight it is ready for use once more. 

PIERROT. This is most awfully fascinating. And do the 
swallows bring all the dreams? 

MANUFACTURER. Not always; I have other messengers. 
Every night when the big clock strikes twelve, a day slips 



THE MAKER OF DREAMS 361 

down from the calendar, and runs away to my workshop 
in the Land of Long Ago. I give him a touch of scarlet 
and a gleam of gold, and say, " Go back, little Yesterday, 
and be a memory in the world." But my best dreams I 
keep for to-day. I buy babies, and fit them up with a 
dream, and then send them complete and carriage paid 
... in the usual maDuer. 

PIERROT. I've been dreaming all my life, but they've always 
been dreams I made myself. I suppose I don't mix 'em 
properly. 

MANUFACTURER. You leave out the very essence of them. 
You must put in a little sorrow, just to take away the 
over-sweetness. I found that out very soon, so I took a 
little of the fresh dew that made pearls in the early morn- 
ing, and I sprinkled my dreams with the gift of tears. 

PIERROT (ecstatically). The gift of tears! How beautiful! 
You know, I should rather like to try a real one. Not 
one of my own making. 

MANUFACTURER. Well, there are plenty about, if you only 
look for them. 

PIERROT. That is all very well, but who's going to look about 
for stray dreams? 

MANUFACTURER. I ouce made a dream that would just suit 
you. I slipped it inside a baby. That was twenty years 
ago, and the baby is now a full-grown woman, with great 
blue eyes and fair hair. 

PIERROT. It's a lot of use merely telling me about her. 

MANUFACTURER. I'll do more. When I shipped her to the 
world, I kept the bill of lading. Here it is. You shall 
have it. 

PIERROT. Thanks, but what's the good of it? 

MANUFACTURER. Why, the holder of that is able to claim the 
goods; you will notice it contains a complete description, 
too. I promise you, you're in luck. 

PIERROT. Has she red cheeks and a string of great beads? 

MANUFACTURER. No. 

PIERROT, Ah, then it is not she. Where shall I find her? 



362 THE MAKER OF DREAMS 

MANUFACTURER. That's for you to discover. All you have 
to do is to search. 

PIERROT. I'll start at once. 
[He moves as if to go. 

MANUFACTURER. I shouldn't start out to-night. 

PIERROT. But I want to find her soon. Somebody else may 
find her before me. 

MANUFACTURER. Picrrot, there was once a man who wanted 
to gather mushrooms. 

PIERROT (annoyed at the commonplace). Mushrooms! 

MANUFACTURER. Fearing people would be up before him, 
he started out overnight. Morning came, and he found 
none, so he returned disconsolate to his house. As he 
came through the garden, he found a great mushroom had 
grown up in the night by his very door-step. Take the 
advice of one who knows, and wait a bit. 

PIERROT. If that's your advice . . . But tell me this, do 
you think I shall find her? 

MANUFACTURER. I Can't say for certain. Would you con- 
sider yourself a fool? 

PIERROT. Ah ... of course . . . when you ask me a 
direct thing like that, you make it . . . er . . . rather 
awkward for me. But, if I may say so, as man to ma . . . 
I mean as man to . . . [He hesitates. 

MANUFACTURER (waiving the point). Yes, yes. 

PIERROT. Well, I flatter myself that . . . 

MANUFACTURER. Exactly. And that's your principal danger. 
Whilst you are striding along gazing at the stars, you may 
be treading on a little glow-worm. Shall I give you a 
third verse for your song? 

"Life's a woman calling, 

Do not stop your ears. 
Lest, when night is falling. 

Darkness brings you tears." 

[The Manufacturer's kindly and impressive tone holds Pierrot 
as it had held Pierrette some moments before. Whilst the two 



THE MAKER OP DREAMS 363 

are looking at each other, a little red cloak dances past the 

window, and Pierrette enters with her marketing. 
PIERRETTE. Oh, I'm SO glad you're still here. 
MANUFACTURER. But I must be going now. I am a great 

traveller. 
PIERRETTE (standing against the door, so that he cannot pass). 

Oh, you mustn't go yet. 
MANUFACTURER. Don't make me fly out of the window. I 

only do that under very unpleasant circumstances. 
PIERROT (gaily, with mock eloquence). Pierrette, regard our 

visitor. You little knew whom you were entertaining. 

You see before you the maker of the dreams that slip 

about the world like little fish among the rushes of a 

stream. He has given me the bill of lading of his great 

masterpiece, and it only remains for me to find her. 

(Dropping to the commonplace) I wish I knew where to 

look. 
MANUFACTURER. Before I go, I will give you this little 

rhyme : 

"Let every woman keep a school, 
For every man is born a fool," 

[He bows, and goes out quickly and silently. 
PIERRETTE (running to the door, and looking out). Why, how 

quickly he has gone ! He's out of sight. 
PIERROT. At last I am about to attain my great ideal. 

There will be a grand wedding, and I shall wear my white 

coat with the silver braid, and carry a tall gold-topped 

stick. (Singing) 

"If we play any longer, I fear you will get 
Such a cold in the head, for the grass is so wet. 
But during the night, Margareta divine, 
I will hang the wet grass up to dry on the line." 

Pierrette, I feel that I am about to enter into a man's 
inheritance, a woman's love. 



364 THE MAKER OF DREAMS 

PIERRETTE. I wish you every happiness. 
PIERROT (singing teasingly). 

"We shall meet in our dreams, that's a thing understood; 

You dream of the river, I'll dream of the wood. 

I am visiting you, if the river it be; 

If we meet in the wood, you are visiting me." 

PIERRETTE. We must make lots of money, so that you can 
give her all she wants. I'll dance and dance until I fall, 
and the people will exclaim, "Why, she has danced herself 
to death." 

PIERROT. You're right. We must pull the show together. 
I'll do that article for the paper at once. 
(He takes paper, ink, etc., from the dresser, and, seating him- 
self at the table, commences to write.) 

"There has lately come to this town a company of strolling 
players, who give a show that is at once musical and droll. 
The audience is enthralled by Pierrot's magnificent sing- 
ing and dancing, and . . . er . . . very much enter- 
tained by Pierrette's homely dancing. Pierrette is a 
charming comedienne of twenty, with ..." what colour 
hair? 

PIERRETTE. Fair, quite fair. 

PIERROT. Funny how one can see a person every day and 
not know the colour of their hair. "Fair hair and . . ." 
eyes? 

PIERRETTE. Bluc, Picrrot. 

PIERROT. "Fair hair and blue eyes." Fair! Blue! Oh, 
of course it's nonsense, though. 

PIERRETTE. What's nonsense? 

PIERROT. Something I was thinking. Most girls have fair 
hair and blue eyes. 

PIERRETTE. Yes, Picrrot, we can't all be ideals. 

PIERROT. How musical your voice sounds ! I can't make it 
out. Oh, but, of course, it is all nonsense! 
[He takes the bill of lading from his pocket and reads it. 



THE MAKER OF DREAMS 365 

PIERRETTE. What's nonsense? . . . Pierrot, won't you tell 
me? 

PIERROT. Pierrette, stand in the light. 

PIERRETTE. Is anything the matter? 

PIERROT. I almost believe that nothing matters. (Reading 
and glancing at her) "Eyes that say 'I love you'; arms 
that say 'I want you'; lips that say 'Why don't you?' " 
Pierrette, is it possible! I've never noticed before how 
beautiful you are. You don't seem a bit the same. I be- 
Heve you have lost your real face, and have carved another 
out of a rose. 

PIERRETTE. Oh, Pierrot, what is it? 

PIERROT. Love! I've found it at last. Don't you under- 
stand it all? 

"I am a fool 

Who has learned wisdom in your school." 

To think that I've seen you every day, and never dreamed 

. . . dreamed! Yes, ah yes, it's one of his beautiful 

dreams. That is why my heart seems full of the early 

morning. 
PIERRETTE. Ah, Picrrot! 
PIERROT. Oh, how my shoulders tingle ! I want to soar up, 

up. Don't you want to fly up to the roof of heaven and 

sing among the stars? 
PIERRETTE. I havc bccu sitting on the moon ever so long, 

waiting for my lover. Pierrot, let me try on your smile. 

Give it to me in a kiss. 

(With their hands outstretched behind them, they lean towards 

each other, till their lips meet in a long kiss. Throwing back 

her head with a deep sigh of happiness) Oh, I am so happy. 

This might be the end of all things. 
PIERROT. Pierrette, let us sit by the fire and put our feet on 

the fender, and live happily ever after. 

(They have moved slowly to the settle. As they sit there, 

Pierrot sings softly: 



366 THE MAKER OF DREAMS 

"Baby, don't wait for the moon, 
The stairs of the sky are so steep; 

And mellow and musical June 
Is waiting to kiss you to sleep." 

[The lamp on the hood of the chimney-piece has burned down, 
leaving only the red glow from the fire upon their faces, as the 
curtain whispers down to hide them. 



THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS 

William Butler Yeats was born in Dublin in 1865. 
Educated in his native city and later in London, at a com- 
paratively early age he became identified with the Irish 
Literary Revival. In this connection, his chief activity was 
the foundation — in company with Lady Gregory, George 
Moore, and Edward Martyn — of the Irish Literary Theater. 
This venture later developed into the Abbey Theater, to- 
ward the success of which Yeats and Lady Gregory have 
largely contributed. 

Most of Yeats' own plays were written for production at 
the Abbey, but his work has been by no means confined to 
writing plays; for besides his poems, which constitute his 
most important work, he has managed the theater, en- 
couraged and taught other dramatists to write for it, and 
finally "discovered" John M. Synge. "The future," de- 
clares Horatio Sheaf e Krans in his book, "William Butler 
Yeats and The Irish Literary Revival", "will look back to 
Mr. Yeats as to a landmark in the literary history of Ireland, 
both because of his artistic achievement and because he has 
been a leader in a remarkable movement. Through his 
poetry the Celtic spirit moves like a fresh wind." 

Yeats brought to the theater great poetic and consider- 
able dramatic gifts; he aroused widespread interest in the 
legends of the Irish past; as propagandist, too, as manager, 
lecturer, teacher, he has done more than any other — ex- 
cepting possibly Lady Gregory — to create a living art for 
Ireland. 



368 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 

PLAYS 

♦The Land of Heart's Desire *The Shadowy Waters (1904) 

(1894) *0n Baile's Strand (1904) 

The Countess Cathleen *Deirdre (1906) 

(1899) The Unicorn from the Stars 
Diarmuid and Grania (1901) (1907) 

(In collaboration with (In collaboration with 

George Moore) Lady Gregory) 

♦Kathleen ni Houlihan (1902) *The Golden Helmet (1908) 

*A Pot of Broth (1902) *The Green Helmet (1911) 

♦The Hour Glass (1903) The Hawk (1916) 

♦The King's Threshold (1903) The Player Queen (1916) 
Where There is Nothing 
(1903) 

"The Land of Heart's Desire" is published separately by 
Thomas B. Mosher, Portland, Maine, by Samuel French, 
New York, and by Walter H. Baker, Boston, as well as in 
various volumes of plays published by Macmillan Company, 
New York; "The Countess Cathleen" in Vol. 2 of "The 
Poetical Works of William B. Yeats", Macmillan; "Kathleen 
ni Houlihan" in volume of that title, Macmillan, and in 
Montrose J. Moses' "Representative British Dramas", 
Little, Brown and Company, Bpston; "A Pot of Broth" and 
"The Hour Glass" in the same volume, in later Yeats volume 
"Responsibilities", Macmillan, and in T. H. Dickinson's 
"Chief Contemporary Dramatists", Houghton, Miffin 
Company, Boston; "The King's Threshold", "The 
Shadowy Waters ", " On Baile's Strand ", and "Deirdre" in 
"The Poetical Works" above cited; "The Unicorn from the 
Stars", separately, by Macmillan; "The Golden Helmet" 
in "Plays for an Irish Theatre", A. H. Bullen, Stratford- 
on-Avon, England; "The Green Helmet" in volume of that 
title, Macmillan. 

References : Horatio Sheafe Krans, " William Butler Yeats 
and the Irish Literary Revival ", Doubleday, Page and Com- 



THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 369 

pany, New York; Forrest Reid, "W. B. Yeats ", Dodd, Mead 
and Company, New York; J. M. Hone, "William Butler 
Yeats", Maunsel and Company, Dublin; B. Russell Herts, 
"Depreciations", Boni and Liveright, New York; James 
Huneker, "The Pathos of Distance", Charles Scribner's 
Sons, New York; Alan Wade, "Bibliography of Yeats" (in 
"Collected Works", A. H. Bullen, Stratford-on-Avon). 

Magazines: Poet Lore, vol. xv, p. 83, Boston; Critic, vol. 
xliv, p. 26; Collier s Weekly, vol. xlviii, p. 15, New York; 
Living Age, vol. cclxix, Boston; Fortnightly, vol. xci, p. 342, 
London; Harper's Weekly, vol. xlviii, p. 291, New York; 
Westminster Review, vol. clxxvi, p. 1, London; North American 
Review, vol. clxxv, p. 473, New York; Quarterly Review, vol. 
ccxv, p. 219, London. 



THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 



By WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS 



"The Land of Heart's Desire" was first produced at 
Dublin in 1894. 

Characters 

Maurteen Bruin, a peasant 
Shawn Bruin, his son 
Father Hart, a priest 
Bridget Bruin, Maurteen' s wife 
Maire Bruin, their daughter-in-law 
A Child 



CopTBiGHT, 1907, BT The Macmillan Company. 
Reprinted by permission of the publishers, The Macmillan Company, 



THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 

Scene. The kitchen of Maurteen Bruin's house. An open 
grate with a turf fire is at the left side of the room, with a table 
in front of it. There is a door leading to the open air at the 
back, and another door a little to its left, leading to an inner 
room. There is a window, a settle and a large dresser on the 
right side of the room, and a great bowl of primroses on the sill 
of the window. Maurteen Bruin, Father Hart, and Bridget 
Bruin are sitting at the table. Shawn Bruin is setting the table 
for supper. Maire Bruin sits on the settle reading a yellow 
manuscript. 

BRIDGET, 

Because I bade her go and feed the calves. 
She took that old book down out of the thatch 
And has been doubled over it all day. 
We would be deafened by her groans and moans 
Had she to work as some do, Father Hart, 
Get up at dawn like me, and mend and scour; 
Or ride abroad in the boisterous night like you. 
The pyx and blessed bread under your arm. 

SHAWN. 

You are too cross. 

BRIDGET. 

The young side with the young. 

MAURTEEN. 

She quarrels with my wife a bit at times, 
And is too deep just now in the old book! 
But do not blame her greatly; she will grow 
As quiet as a puff-ball in a tree 
When but the moons of marriage dawn and die 
For half a score of times. 



374 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 

FATHER. 

Their hearts are wild 
As be the hearts of birds, till childrep come. 

BRIDGET. 

She would not mind the griddle, milk the cow, 
Or even lay the kni^^es and spread the cloth. 

FATHER. 

I never saw her read a book before; 
What may it be? 

MAURTEEN. 

I do not rightly know; 
It has been in the thatch for fifty years. 
My father told me my grandfather wrote it. 
Killed a red heifer and bound it with the hide. 
But draw your chair this way — supper is spread; 
And little good he got out of the book, 
Because it filled his house with roaming bards, 
And roaming ballad-makers and the like. 
And wasted all his goods. — Here is the wine: 
The griddle bread's beside you, Father Hart. 
Colleen, what have you got there in the book 
That you must leave the bread to cool? Had I, 
Or had my father, read or written books 
There were no stocking full of silver and gold 
To come, when I am dead, to Shawn and you. 

FATHER. 

You should not fill your head with foolish dreams. 
What are you reading? 

MAIRE. 

How a Princess Adene, 
A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard 
A voice singing on a May Eve like this. 
And followed, half awake and half asleep, 
Until she came into the land of faery. 
Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, 
Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise. 
Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue; 



THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 375 

And she is still there, busied with a dance, 

Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood, 

Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top. 

MAURTEEN. 

Persuade the colleen to put by the book: 
My grandfather would mutter just such things. 
And he was no judge of a dog or horse. 
And any idle boy could blarney him: 
Just speak your mind. 

FATHER. 

Put it away, my colleen. 
God spreads the heavens above us like great wings, 
And gives a little round of deeds and days. 
And then come the wrecked angels and set snares, 
And bait them with light hopes and heavy dreams. 
Until the heart is puffed with pride and goes, 
Half shuddering and half joyous, from God's peace: 
And it was some wrecked angel, blind from tears. 
Who flattered Adene's heart with merry words. 
My colleen, I have seen some other girls 
Restless and ill at ease, but years went by 
And they grew like their neighbors and were glad 
In minding children, working at the churn. 
And gossiping of weddings and of wakes; 
For life moves out of a red flare of dreams 
Into a common light of common hours. 
Until old age brings the red flare again. 

SHAWN. 

Yet do not blame her greatly, Father Hart, 
For she is dull while I am in the fields. 
And mother's tongue were harder still to bear. 
But for her fancies: this is May Eve too, 
When the good people post about the world. 
And surely one may think of them to-night. 
Maire, have you the primroses to fling 
Before the door to make a golden path 
For them to bring good luck into the house? 



376 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 

Remember, they may steal new-married brides 

After the fall of twilight on May Eve. 

[Maire goes over to the windoiv and takes flowers from the 

howl and strews them outside the door. 

FATHER. 

You do well, daughter, because God permits 
Great power to the good people on May Eve. 

SHAWN. 

They can work all their will with primroses; 
Change them to golden money, or little flames 
To burn up those who do them any wrong. 
MAIRE (in a dreamy voice). 

I had no sooner flung them by the door 
Than the wind cried and hurried them away; 
And then a child came running in the wind 
And caught them in her hands and fondled them: 
Her dress was green: her hair was of red gold; 
Her face was pale as water before dawn. 

FATHER. 

Whose child can this be? 

MAURTEEN. 

No one's child at all. 
She often dreams that some one has gone by 
When there was nothing but a puff of wind. 

MAIRE. 

They will not bring good luck into the house. 
For they will have blown the primroses away; 
Yet I am glad that I was courteous to them. 
For are not they, likewise, children of God.'' 

FATHER. 

Colleen, they are the children of the field. 
And they have power until the end of Time, 
When God shall fight with them a great pitched battle 
And hack them into pieces. 
MAIRE. He will smile. 

Father, perhaps, and open his great door, 
And call the pretty and kind into his house. 



THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 377 

FATHER. 

Did but the lawless angels see that door. 

They would fall, slain by everlasting peace; 

And when such angels knock upon our doors 

Who goes with them must drive through the same storm. 

[A knock at the door. Maire opens it and then goes to the 

dresser and fills a porringer with milk and hands it through 

the door and takes it back empty and closes the door. 

MAIRE. 

A little queer old woman cloaked in green. 
Who came to beg a porringer of milk. 

BRIDGET. 

The good people go asking milk and fire 
Upon May Eve — Woe on the house that gives. 
For they have power upon it for a year. 
I knew you would bring evil on the house. 

MAURTEEN. 

Who was she? 

MAIRE. 

Both the tongue and face were strange. 

MAURTEEN. 

Some strangers came last week to Clover Hill; 
She must be one of them. 
BRIDGET. I am afraid. 

MAURTEEN. 

The priest will keep all harm out of the house. 

FATHER. 

The cross will keep all harm out of the house 
While it hangs there. 

MAURTEEN. 

Come, sit beside me, colleen. 
And put away your dreams of discontent. 
For I would have you light up my last days 
Like a bright torch of pine, and when I die 
I will make you the wealthiest hereabout: 
For hid away where nobody can find 
I have a stocking full of silver and gold. 



378 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 

BRIDGET. 

You are the fool of every pretty face, 

And I must pinch and pare that my son's wife 

May have all kinds of ribbons for her head. 

MAURTEEN. 

Do not be cross; she is a right good girl! 

The butter is by your elbow, Father Hart. 

My colleen, have not Fate and Time and Change 

Done well for me and for old Bridget there.? 

We have a hundred acres of good land, 

And sit beside each other at the fire. 

The wise priest of our parish to our right, 

And you and our dear son to left of us. 

To sit beside the board and drink good wine 

And watch the turf smoke coiling from the fire 

And feel content and wisdom in your heart. 

This is the best of life; when we are young 

We long to tread a way none trod before. 

But find the excellent old way through love 

And through the care of children to the hour 

For bidding Fate and Time and Change good-bye. 

[A knock at the door. Maire opens it and then takes a sod 

of turf out of the hearth in the tongs and passes it through the 

door and closes the door and remains standing by it. 

MAIRE. 

A little queer old man in a green coat, 
Who asked a burning sod to light his pipe. 

BRIDGET. 

You have now given milk and fire, and brought, 
For all you know, evil upon the house. 
Before you married you were idle and fine, 
And went about with ribbons on your head; 
And now you are a good-for-nothing wife. 

SHAWN. 

Be quiet, mother! 

MAURTEEN. 

You are much too cross! 



THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 379 

MAIRE. 

What do I care if I have given this house. 
Where I must hear all day a bitter tongue. 
Into the power of faeries! 

BRIDGET. 

You know well 
How calling the good people by that name 
Or talking of them over much at all 
May bring all kinds of evil on the house. 

MAIRE. 

Come, faeries, take me out of this dull house! 
Let me have all the freedom I have lost; 
Work when I will and die when I will ! 
Faeries, come take me out of this dull world, 
For I would ride with you upon the wind. 
Run on the top of the disheveled tide. 
And dance upon the mountains like a flame! 

FATHER. 

You cannot know the meaning of your words. 

MAIRE. 

Father, I am right weary of four tongues: 

A tongue that is too crafty and too wise, 

A tongue that is too godly and too grave, 

A tongue that is more bitter than the tide. 

And a kind tongue too full of drowsy love, 

Of drowsy love and my captivity. 

[Shawn comes over to her and leads her to the settle. 

SHAWN. 

Do not blame me: I often lie awake 

Thinking that all things trouble your bright head — 

How beautiful it is — such broad pale brows 

Under a cloudy blossoming of hair! 

Sit down beside me here — these are too old, 

And have forgotten they were ever young. 

MAIRE. 

O you are the great door-post of this house, 
And I, the red nasturtium, climbing up. 



380 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 

[She takes Shawn's hand, but looks shyly at the priest and 
lets it go. 

FATHER. 

Good daughter, take his hand — by love alone 
God binds us to himself and to the hearth 
And shuts us from the waste beyond his peace. 
From maddening freedom and bewildering light. 

SHAWN. 

Would that the world were mine to give it you 
With every quiet hearth and barren waste, 
The maddening freedom of its woods and tides, 
And the bewildering light upon its hills. 

MAIRE. 

Then I would take and break it in my hands 
To see you smile watching it crumble away. 

SHAWN. 

Then I would mould a world of fire and dew 
With no one bitter, grave, or over wise. 
And nothing marred or old to do you wrong. 
And crowd the enraptured quiet of the sky 
With candles burning to your lonely face. 

MAIRE. 

Your looks are all the candles that I need. 

SHAWN. 

Once a fly dancing in a beam of the sun 

Or the light wind blowing out of the dawn. 

Could fill your heart with dreams none other knew. 

But now the indissoluble sacrament 

Has mixed your heart that was most proud and cold 

With my warm heart forever; and sun and moon 

Must fade and heaven be rolled up like a scroll; 

But your white spirit still walk by my spirit. 

[A Voice sings in the distance. 

MAIRE. 

Did you hear something call? O guard me close, 
Because I have said wicked things to-night; 
And seen a pale-faced child with red-gold hair. 



THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 381 

And longed to dance upon the winds with her. 
A VOICE (close to the door). 

The wind blows out of the gates of the day. 

The wind blows over the lonely of heart 

And the lonely of heart is withered away, 

While the faeries dance in a place apart. 

Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring, 

Tossing their milk-white arms in the air; 

For they hear the wind laugh, and murmur and sing 

Of a land where even the old are fair. 

And even the wise are merry of tongue; 

But I heard a reed of Coolaney say, 

"When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung 

The lonely of heart is withered away!" 

MAURTEEN. 

I am right happy, and would make all else 

Be happy too. I hear a child outside, 

And will go bring her in out of the cold. 

[He opens the door. A Child dressed in pale green and with 

red-gold hair comes into the house. 

CHILD. 

I tire of winds and waters and pale lights! 

MAURTEEN. 

You are most welcome. It is cold out there; 
Who would think to face such cold on a May Eve? 

CHILD. 

And when I tire of this warm little house 

There is one here who must away, away. 

To where the woods, the stars, and the white streams 

Are holding a continual festival. 

MAURTEEN. 

O listen to her dreamy and strange talk. 
Come to the fire. 
CHILD. I will sit upon your knee. 

For I have run from where the winds are born. 
And long to rest ray feet a little while. 
[She sits upon his knee. 



382 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 

BRIDGET. 

How pretty you are ! 
MAURTEEN. Your hair is wet with dew! 

BRIDGET. 

I will warm your chilly feet. 

[She takes the child's feet in her hands. 

MAURTEEN. 

You must have come 
A long, long way, for I have never seen 
Your pretty face, and must be tired and hungry; 
Here is some bread and wine. 

CHILD. 

The wine is bitter. 
Old mother, have you no sweet food for me? 

BRIDGET. 

I have some honey! 

[She goes into the next room. 

MAURTEEN. 

You are a dear child; 
The mother was quite cross before you came. 
[Bridget returns with the honey, and goes to the dresser and 
fills a porringer with milk. 

BRIDGET. 

She is the child of gentle people; look 

At her white hands and at her pretty dress. 

I have brought you some new milk, but wait a while. 

And I will put it by the fire to warm. 

For things well fitted for poor folk like us 

Would never please a high-born child like you. 

CHILD. 

Old mother, my old mother, the green dawn 
Brightens above while you blow up the fire; 
And evening finds you spreading the white cloth. 
The young may lie in bed and dream and hope. 
But you work on because your heart is old. 

BRIDGET. 

The young are idle. 



THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 383 

CHILD. 

Old father, you are wise 
And all the years have gathered in your heart 
To whisper of the wonders that are gone. 
The young must sigh through many a dream and hope. 
But you are wise because your heart is old. 

MAURTEEN. 

who would think to find so young a child 
Loving old age and wisdom? 

[Bridget gives her more bread and honey. 

CHILD. 

No more, mother. 

MAURTEEN. 

What a small bite! The milk is ready now; 
What a small sip! 

CHILD. 

Put on my shoes, old mother. 
For I would like to dance now I have eaten. 
The reeds are dancing by Coolaney lake. 
And I would like to dance until the reeds 
And the white waves have danced themselves to sleep. 
[Bridget having put on her shoes, she gets off the old man*s 
knees and is about to dance, but suddenly sees the crucifix and 
shrieks and covers her eyes. 
What is that ugly thing on the black cross? 

FATHER. 

You cannot know how naughty your words are! 
That is our Blessed Lord ! 

CHILD. 

Hide it away! 

BRIDGET. 

1 have begun to be afraid, again! 

CHILD, 

Hide it away! 
MAURTEEN. That would be wickedness ! 

BRIDGET, 

That would be sacrilege! 



384 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 

CHILD. 

The tortured thing! 
Hide it away! 

MAURTEEN. 

Her parents are to blame. 

FATHER. 

That is the image of the Son of God. 

[The Child puts her arm round his neck and kisses him. 

CHILD. 

Hide it away! Hide it away! 

MAURTEEN. 

No! No! 

FATHER. 

Because you are so young and Httle a child 
I will go take it down. 

CHILD. 

Hide it away, 
And cover it out of sight and out of mind. 
[Father takes it down and carries it toward the inner 
room. 

FATHER. 

Since you have come into this barony 
I will instruct you in our blessed faith: 
Being a clever child you will soon learn. 

(To the others) 
We must be tender with all budding things. 
Our Maker let no thought of Calvary 
Trouble the morning stars in their first song. 
(Puts the crucifix in the inner room) 

CHILD. 

Here is level ground for dancing. I will dance. 
The wind is blowing on the waving reeds, 
The wind is blowing on the heart of man. 
[She dances, swaying about like the reeds. 
MAiRE (to Shawn). 

Just now when she came near I thought I heard 
Other small steps beating upon the floor. 



THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 385 

And a faint music blowing in the wind. 
Invisible pipes giving her feet the time. 

SHAWN. 

I heard no step but hers. 

MAIRE. 

Look to the bolt! 
Because the unholy powers are abroad. 
MAURTEEN {to the Child). 

Come over here, and if you promise me 
Not to talk wickedly of holy things 
I will give you something. 

CHILD. 

Bring it me, old father! 

[Maurteen goes into the next room. 

FATHER. 

I will have queen cakes when you come to me! 
[Maurteen returns and lays a piece of money on the table. The 
Child makes a gesture of refusal. 

MAURTEEN. 

It will buy lots of toys; see how it glitters! 

CHILD. 

Come, tell me, do you love me? 

MAURTEEN. 

I love you! 

CHILD. 

Ah! but you love this fireside! 

FATHER. 

I love you. 

CHILD. 

But you love him above. 

BRIDGET. 

She is blaspheming. 
CHILD (to Maire). 

And do you love me? 
MAIRE. I — I do not know. 

CHILD. 

You love that great tall fellow over there: 



386 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 

Yet I could make you ride upon the winds, 
Run on the top of the disheveled tide, 
And dance upon the mountains like a flame! 

MAIRE. 

Queen of the Angels and kind Saints, defend us! 
Some dreadful fate has fallen: a while ago 
The wind cried out and took the primroses. 
And she ran by me laughing in the wind. 
And I gave milk and fire, and she came in 
And made you hide the blessed crucifix. 

FATHER. 

You fear because of her wild, pretty prattle; 
She knows no better. 

{To the Child) 

Child, how old are you? 

CHILD. 

When winter sleep is abroad my hair grows thin, 
My feet unsteady. When the leaves awaken 
My mother carries me in her golden arms. 
I will soon put on my womanhood and marry 
The spirits of wood and water, but who can tell 
When I was born for the first time? I think 
I am much older than the eagle cock 
That blinks and blinks on Ballygawly Hill, 
And he is the oldest thing under the moon. 

FATHER. 

She is of the fairy people. 

CHILD. 

I am Brig's daughter. 
I sent my messengers for milk and fire. 
And then I heard one call to me and came. 
[They all, except Maire, gather about the priest for protection. 
Maire stays on the settle in a stupor of terror. The Child 
takes primroses from the great bowl and begins to strew them 
between herself and the priest and about Maire. During the 
following dialogue Shawn goes more than once to the brink of 
the primroses, but shrinks back to the others timidly. 



THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 387 

FATHER. 

I will confront this mighty spirit alone. 
[They cling to him and hold him back. 
CHILD (while she strews the 'primroses). 

No one whose heart is heavy with human tears 
Can cross these little cressets of the wood. 

FATHER. 

Be not afraid, the Father is with us, 

And all the nine angelic hierarchies, 

The Holy Martyrs and the Innocents, 

The adoring Magi in their coats of mail. 

And he who died and rose on the third day, 

And Mary with her seven times wounded heart. 

{The Child ceases strewing the 'primroses, and kneels upon 

the settle beside Maire and puts her arms about her neck) 

Cry, daughter to the Angels and the Saints. 

CHILD. 

You shall go with me, newly-married bride, 
And gaze upon a merrier multitude; 
White-armed Nuala and Aengus of the birds. 
And Feacra of the hurtling foam, and him 
Who is the ruler of the western host, 
Finvarra, and their Land of Heart's Desire, 
Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood. 
But joy is wisdom. Time an endless song. 
I kiss you and the world begins to fade. 

FATHER. 

Daughter, I call you unto home and love! 

CHILD. 

Stay, and come with me, newly-married bride, 
For, if you hear him, you grow like the rest: 
Bear children, cook, be mindful of the churn. 
And wrangle over butter, fowl, and eggs. 
And sit at last there, old and bitter tongue, 
Watching the white stars war upon your hopes. 

FATHER. 

Daughter, I point you out the way to heaven. 



388 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 

CHILD. 

But I can lead you, newly-married bride, 
Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise. 
Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, 
Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue, 
And where kind tongues bring no captivity, 
For we are only true to the far lights 
We follow singing, over valley and hill. 

FATHER. 

By the dear name of the one crucified, 
I bid you, Maire Bruin, come to me. 

CHILD. 

I keep you in the name of your own heart ! 
{She leaves the settle, and stooping takes up a mass of prim- 
roses and kisses them) 

We have great power to-night, dear golden folk, 
For he took down and hid the crucifix. 
And my invisible brethren fill the house; 
I hear their footsteps going up and down. 

they shall soon rule all the hearts of men 

And own all lands; last night they merrily danced 
About his chapel belfry ! {To Maire) Come away, 

1 hear my brethren bidding us away ! 

FATHER. 

I will go fetch the crucifix again. 

[They hang about him in terror and prevent him from moving. 

BRIDGET. 

The enchanted flowers will kill us if you go. 

MAURTEEN. 

They turn the flowers to little twisted flames. 

SHAWN. 

The little twisted flames burn up the heart. 

CHILD. 

I hear them crying, "Newly married bride. 
Come to the woods and waters and pale lights." 

MAIRE. 

I will go with you. 



THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 389 

FATHER. 

She is lost, alas! 
CHILD (standing by the door). 

But clinging mortal hope must fall from you 
For we who ride the winds, run on the waves, 
And dance upon the mountains, are more light 
Than dewdrops on the banners of the dawn. 

MAIRE. 

take me with you. 
[Shawn goes over to her. 

SHAWN. 

Beloved, do not leave me! 
Remember when I met you by the well 
And took your hand in mine and spoke of love. 

MAIRE. 

Dear face! Dear voice! 

CHILD. 

Come, newly-married bride! 

MAIRE. 

1 always loved her world — and yet — and yet 

[Sinks into his arms. 

CHILD (from the door). 

White bird, white bird, come with me, Uttle bird. 

MAIRE. 

She calls to me! 

CHILD. 

Come with me, little bird! 

MAIRE. 

I can hear songs and dancing! 

SHAWN. 

Stay with me. 

MAIRE. 

I think that I would stay — and yet — and yet 

CHILD. 

Come, little bird with crest of gold! 
MAIRE (very softly). 

And yet 



390 THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 

CHILD. 

Come, little bird with silver feet! 
[Maire dies, and the child goes. 

SHAWN. 

She is dead! 

BRIDGET. 

Come from that image: body and soul are gone, 
You have thrown your arms about a drift of leaves 
Or bole of an ash-tree changed into her image. 

FATHER. 

Thus do the spirits of evil snatch their prey 
Almost out of the very hand of God; 
And day by day their power is more and more, 
And men and women leave old paths, for pride 
Comes knocking with thin knuckles on the heart. 
A VOICE {singing outside). 

The wind blows out of the gates of the day. 

The wind blows over the lonely of heart 

And the lonely of heart is withered away. 

While the faeries dance in a place apart, 

Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring, 

Tossing their milk-white arms in the air; 

For they hear the wind laugh, and murmur and sing 

Of a land where even the old are fair. 

And even the wise are merry of tongue; 

But I heard a reed of Coolaney say, 

"When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung 

The lonely of heart is withered away!" 

[The song is taken up by many voices, who sing loudly, as 

if in triumph. Some of the voices seem to come from within 

the house. 

CURTAIN 



RIDERS TO THE SEA 

J. M. SYNGE 

Edmund John Millington Synge was born near Dublin, 
at Newtown Little, in 1871. Little is recorded of his early 
life, except that he remained at home until he was almost 
twenty, and that he graduated from Trinity College, Dublin, 
in 1892. Endowed with a natural taste for music and travel, 
he wandered through Europe — with his violin — for some 
years. He went first to Germany, intending to study music 
seriously, but decided to return to Paris, where he devoted 
himself to literary hack-work of various kinds. There he 
wrote a few poems and contributed occasional articles to 
English reviews. It was not, however, until he was "dis- 
ciovered" by Yeats, who in 1898 persuaded him to return to 
Ireland and study the primitive folk in unfrequented dis- 
tricts, that he began to do significant work. Yeats induced 
Synge to write for the then recently founded Irish Theater. 
In the Aran Islands, in Kerry and Wicklow and Connemara, 
he wandered, finding among the people with whom he lived 
the characters which he incorporated in his plays of Irish 
life. He died of cancer in 1909, in Dublin. 

"He loves," says Yeats, "all that has edge, all that is salt 
in the mouth, all that is rough to the hand, all that heightens 
the emotions by contest, all that stings into life the sense of 
tragedy. . . . The food of the spiritual-minded is sweet, 
an Indian scripture says, but passionate minds love bitter 
food." 

"Riders to the Sea" is the most direct and compact of all 
Synge's plays. Less highly colored in language than 
"Deirdre of the Sorrows" and lacking the purely imaginative 



392 RIDERS TO THE SEA 

force of "The Playboy of the Western World", it is without 
doubt the dramatist's best sustained effort. Synge's own 
words on the drama should be pondered in connection with 
the reading of this play: "The drama is made serious — in the 
French sense of the word — not by the degree in which it is 
taken up with problems that are serious in themselves, but 
by the degree in which it gives the nourishment, not very 
easy to define, on which our imaginations five. . . . The 
drama, like the symphony, does not teach or prove anything." 

PLAYS 

*The Shadow of the Glen The Tinker's Wedding 

(1902) (1909) 

*Riders to the Sea (1904) Deirdre of the Sorrows 

The Well of the Saints (1910) 

(1905) 
The Playboy of the Western 
World (1907) 

All Synge's plays are published separately by John W. 
Luce and Company, Boston. 

References: Francis Bickley, "J. M. Synge and the Irish 
Dramatic Movement ", Houghton, Mifflin Company, Boston; 
Maurice Bourgeois, "John Millington Synge and the Irish 
Theater", Macmillan Company, New York; John Masefield, 
"John M. Synge", Macmillan; P. P. Howe, "J. M. Synge", 
Dodd, Mead and Company, New York; and "Dramatic 
Portraits ", Mitchell Kennerley, New York; C. E. Montague, 
"Dramatic Values ", Macmillan; W. B. Yeats, "The Cutting 
of an Agate", Macmillan; Darrell Figgis, "Studies and Ap- 
preciations ", E. P. Dutton and Company, New York; James 
Huneker, "The Pathos of Distance", Charles Scribner's 
Sons, New York; J. M. Synge, "The Aran Islands", and 
"In Kerry and Wicklow", John W. Luce and Company, 
Boston. 



RIDERS TO THE SEA 393 

Magazines: Contemporary Review, vol. xciv, p. 470, 
London; The Dial, vol. 1, p. 37, vol. liv, p. 233, New York; 
The Living Age, vol. cclxix, p. 163, and vol. cclxxx, p. 777, 
Boston; The Nation, vol. xciii, p. 376, and vol. xcv, p. 608, 
New York; Yale Review, vol. i, p. 192, and vol. ii, p. 767, New 
Haven; The Forum, vol. xlvii, p. 55, New York; Current Lit- 
erature, vol. liii, p. 695, New York. 



RIDERS TO THE SEA 



By J. M. SYNGE 



'Riders to the Sea" was first produced at Dublin in 1904. 

Characters 

Maubya, an old woman 
Bartley, her son 
Cathleen, her daughter 
Nora, a younger daughter 
Men and Women 



COPTKIGHT, 1916, BT L. E. BaSBETT. 

Reprinted by permission of the publishers, Messrs. John W. Luce and Company, 
of Boston. 



RIDERS TO THE SEA 

Scene. An Island off the West of Ireland. Cottage kitcheUy 

vyith nets, oil-shins, spinning wheel, some new boards standing 

by the wall, etc. Cathleen, a girl of about twenty, finishes 

kneading cake, and puts it down in the pot-oven by the fire; then 

wipes her hands, and begins to spin at the wheel. Nora, a 

young girl, puts her head in at the door. 

NORA (in a low voice). Where is she? 

CATHLEEN. She's lying down, God help her, and may be 
sleeping, if she's able. 

[Nora comes in softly, and takes a bundle from under her 
shawl. 

CATHLEEN (spinning the wheel rapidly). What is it you have? 

NORA. The young priest is after bringing them. It's a shirt 
and a plain stocking were got off a drowned man in 
Donegal. 

[Cathleen stops her wheel with a sudden movement, and leans 
out to listen. 

NORA. We're to find out if it's Michael's they are, some 
time herself will be down looking by the sea. 

CATHLEEN. How would they be Michael's, Nora? How 
would he go the length of that way to the far north? 

NORA. The young priest says he's known the like of it. 
"If it's Michael's they are ", says he, "you can tell herself 
he's got a clean burial by the grace of God, and if they're 
not his, let no one say a word about them, for she'll be 
getting her death ", says he, "with crying and lamenting." 
[The door which Nora half closed is blown open by a gust of 
wind. 

CATHLEEN (looking out anxiously). Did you ask him would 
he stop Bartley going this day with the horses to the Gal- 
way fair? 



398 RIDERS TO THE SEA 

NORA. "I won't stop him", says he, "but let you not be 
afraid. Herself does be saying prayers half through the 
night, and the Almighty God won't leave her destitute ", 
says he, "with no son living." 

CATHLEEN. Is the sea bad by the white rocks, Nora? 

NORA. Middling bad, God help us. There's a great roaring 
in the west, and it's worse it'll be getting when the tide's 
turned to the wind. (She goes over to the table with the 
bundle) Shall I open it now? 

CATHLEEN. Maybe she'd wake up on us, and come in be- 
fore we'd done. {Coming to the table) It's a long time 
we'll be, and the two of us crying. 

NORA (goes to the inner door and listens) . She's moving about 
on the bed. She'll be coming in a minute. 

CATHLEEN. Give me the ladder, and I'll put them up in the 
turf-loft, the way she won't know of them at all, and 
maybe when the tide turns she'll be going down to see 
would he be floating from the east. 

[They put the ladder against the gable of the chimney; Cath- 
leen goes up a few steps and hides the bundle in the turf -loft. 
Maurya comes from the inner room. 

MAURYA {looking up at Cathleen and speaking querulously). 
Isn't it turf enough you have for this day and evening? 

CATHLEEN. There's a cake baking at the fire for a short 
space {throwing down the turf) and Bartley will want it 
when the tide turns if he goes to Connemara. 
[Nora picks up the turf and puts it round the pot-oven. 

MAURYA {sitting down on a stool at the fire). He won't go this 
day with the wind rising from the south and west. He 
won't go this day, for the young priest will stop him 
surely. 

NORA. He'll not stop him, mother, and I heard Eamon 
Simon and Stephen Pheety and Colum Shawn saying he 
would go. 

MAURYA. Where is he itself? 

NORA. He went down to see would there be another boat 
sailing in the week, and I'm thinking it won't be long till 



RIDERS TO THE SEA 399 

he's here now, for the tide's turning at the green head, 
and the hooker's tacking from the east. 

CATHLEEN. I hear some one passing the big stones. . 

NORA {looking out). He's coming now, and he in a hurry. 

BARTLEY {comes in and looks round the room. Speaking sadly 
and quietly). Where is the bit of new rope, Cathleen, was 
bought in Connemara? 

CATHLEEN (coming doivn). Give it to him, Nora; it's on a 
nail by the white boards. I hung it up this morning, for 
the pig with the black feet was eating it. 

NORA (giving him a rope). Is that it, Bartley? 

MAURYA. You'd do right to leave that rope, Bartley, hang- 
ing by the boards. (Bartley takes the rope) It will be want- 
ing in this place, I'm telling you, if Michael is washed up 
to-morrow morning, or the next morning, or any morning 
in the week, for it's a deep grave we'll make him by the 
grace of God. 

BARTLEY (begirining to work with the rope). I've no halter 
the way I can ride down on the mare, and I must go now 
quickly. This is the one boat going for two weeks or 
beyond it, and the fair will be a good fair for horses I heard 
them saying below. 

MAURYA. It's a hard thing they'll be saying below if the 
body is washed up and there's no man in it to make the 
coffin, and I after giving a big price for the finest white 
boards you'd find in Connemara. 
[She looks round at the boards. 

BARTLEY. How would it be washed up, and we after look- 
ing each day for nine days, and a strong wind blowing a 
while back from the west and south? 

MAURYA. If it wasn't found itself, that wind is raising the 
sea, and there was a star up against the moon, and it 
rising in the night. If it was a hundred horses, or a thou- 
sand horses you had itself, what is the price of a thousand 
horses against a son where there is one son only? 

BARTLEY (working at the halter, to Cathleen). Let you go 
down each day, and see the sheep aren't jumping in on the 



400 RIDERS TO THE SEA 

rye, and if the jobber comes you can sell the pig with the 
black feet if there is a good price going. 

MAURYA. How would the like of her get a good price for a 
pig? 

BARTLEY (to Cothleen). If the west wind holds with the last 
bit of the moon let you and Nora get up weed enough for 
another cock for the kelp. It's hard set we'll be from this 
day with no one in it but one man to work. 

MAURYA. It's hard set we'll be surely the day you're 
drownd'd with the rest. What way will I live and the 
girls with me, and I an old woman looking for the grave? 
[Bartley lays down the halter, takes off his old coat, and puts 
on a newer one of the same flannel. 

HARTLEY {to Nora). Is she coming to the pier? 

NORA (looking out). She's passing the green head and letting 
fall her sails. 

BARTLEY (getting his purse and tobacco). I'll have half an 
hour to go down, and you'll see me coming again in two 
days, or in three days, or maybe in four days if the wind 
is bad. 

MAURYA (turning round to the fire, and putting her shawl over 
her head). Isn't it a hard and cruel man won't hear a 
word from an old woman, and she holding him from the 
sea? 

CATHLEEN. It's the life of a young man to be going on the 
sea, and who would listen to an old woman with one thing 
and she saying it over? 

BARTLEY (taking the halter). I must go now quickly. I'll 
ride down on the red mare, and the gray pony'll run be- 
hind me. . . . The blessing of God on you. 
[He goes out. 

MAURYA (crying out as he is in the door). He's gone now, 
God spare us, and we'll not see him again. He's gone 
now, and when the black night is falling I'll have no son 
left me in the world. 

CATHLEEN. Why wouldu't you give him your blessing and 
he looking round in the door? Isn't it sorrow enough is 



RIDERS TO THE SEA 401 

on every one in this house without your sending him out 
with an unlucky word behind him, and a hard word in his 
ear? 

[Maurya takes up the tongs and begins raking the fire aim- 
lessly without looking round. 

NORA {turning towards her). You're taking away the turf 
from the cake. 

CATHLEEN (crying out). The Son of God forgive us, Nora, 
we're after forgetting his bit of bread. 
[She comes over to the fi,re. 

NORA. And it's destroyed he'll be going till dark night, and 
he after eating nothing since the sun went up. 

CATHLEEN {turning the cake out of the oven). It's destroyed 
he'll be, surely. There's no sense left on any person in a 
house where an old woman will be talking for ever. 
[Maurya sways herself on her stool. 

CATHLEEN {cutting off some of the bread and rolling it in a 
cloth; to Maurya). Let you go down now to the spring 
well and give him this and he passing. You'll see him then 
and the dark word will be broken, and you can say " God 
speed you," the way he'll be easy in his mind. 

MAURYA {taking the bread). Will I be in it as soon as himself? 

CATHLEEN. If you go now quickly. 

MAURYA {standing up unsteadily). It's hard set I am to walk. 

CATHLEEN {looking at her anxiously). Give her the stick, 
Nora, or maybe she'll slip on the big stones. 

NORA. What stick? 

CATHLEEN. The stick Michael brought from Connemara. 

MAURYA {taking a stick Nora gives her). In the big world 
the old people do be leaving things after them for their 
sons and children, but in this place it is the young men do 
be leaving things behind for them that do be old. 
[She goes oid slowly. Nora goes over to the ladder. 

CATHLEEN. Wait, Nora, maybe she'd turn back quickly. 
She's that sorry, God help her, you wouldn't know the 
thing she'd do. 

NORA. Is she gone round by the bush? 



402 RIDERS TO THE SEA 

CATHLEEN (looJcing out). She's gone now. Throw it down 

quickly, for the Lord knows when she'll be out of it 

again. 
NORA (getting the bundle from the loft). The young priest 

said he'd be passing to-morrow, and we might go down 

and speak to him below if it's Michael's they are surely. 
CATHLEEN {taking the bundle). Did he say what way they 

were found? 
NORA {coming down). "There were two men," says he, 

"and they rowing round with poteen before the cocks 

crowed, and the oar of one of them caught the body, and 

they passing the black cliffs of the north." 
CATHLEEN {trying to open the bundle). Give me a knife, 

Nora, the string's perished with the salt water, and there's 

a black knot on it you wouldn't loosen in a week. 
NORA {giving her a knife). I've heard tell it was a long way 

to Donegal. 
CATHLEEN {cutting the string). It is surely. There was a 

man in here a while ago — the man sold us that knife — 

and he said if you set off walking from the rocks beyond, 

it would be seven days you'd be in Donegal. 
NORA. And what time would a man take, and he floating? 

[Cathleen opens the bundle and takes out a bit of a stocking. 

They look at them eagerly. 
CATHLEEN {iu a low voicc) . The Lord spare us, Nora! isn't 

it a queer hard thing to say if it's his they are surely? 
NORA. I'll get his shirt off the hook the way we can put the 

one flannel on the other. {She looks through some clothes 

hanging in the corner) It's not with them, Cathleen, and 

where will it be? 
CATHLEEN. I'm thinking Bartley put it on him in the 

morning, for his own shirt was heavy with the salt in it. 

{Pointing to the corner) There's a bit of a sleeve was of 

the same stuff. Give me that and it will do. 

[Nora brings it to her and they compare the flannel. 
CATHLEEN. It's the Same stuff, Nora; but if it is itself aren't 

there great rolls of it in the shops of Galway, and isn't 



RIDERS TO THE SEA 403 

it many another man may have a shirt of it as well as 
Michael himself? 

NORA {wlio has taken up the stocking and counted the stitches^ 
crying out). It's Michael, Cathleen, it's Michael; God 
spare his soul, and what will herself say when she hears 
this story, and Bartley on the sea? 

CATHLEEN {taking the stocking). It's a plain stocking. 

NORA. It's the second one of the third pair I knitted, and 
I put up three score stitches, and I dropped four of 
them. 

CATHLEEN (couuts the stitchcs). It's that number is in it 
{crying out). Ah, Nora, isn't it a bitter thing to think of 
him floating that way to the far north, and no one to keen 
him but the black hags that do be flying on the sea? 

NORA {sxcinging herself round, and ihrowing out her arms on 
the clothes). And isn't it a pitiful thing when there is 
nothing left of a man who was a great rower and fisher, 
but a bit of an old shirt and a plain stocking? 

CATHLEEN {after an instant). Tell me is herself coming, 
Nora? I hear a little sound on the path. 

NORA {looking out). She is, Cathleen. She's coming up to 
the door. 

CATHLEEN. Put thcsc things away before she'll come in. 
Maybe it's easier she'll be after giving her blessing to 
Bartley, and we won't let on we've heard anything the 
time he's on the sea. 

NORA {helping Cathleen to close the bundle). We'll put them 
here in the corner. 

[They put them into a hole in the chimney corner. Cathleen 
goes back to the spinning wheel. 

NORA. Will she see it was crying I was? 

CATHLEEN. Keep your back to the door the way the light'll 
not be on you. {Nora sits down at the chimney corner, 
with her back to the door. Maurya comes in very slowly, 
without looking at the girls, and goes over to her stool at the 
other side of the fire. The cloth with the bread is still in her 
hand. The girls look at each other, and Nora points to the 



404 RIDERS TO THE SEA 

bundle of bread. Cathleen, after spinning for a moment) 

You didn't give him his bit of bread? 

[Maurya begins to keen softly, without turning round. 
CATHLEEN. Did you see him riding down? (Maurya goes 

on keening. A little impatiently) God forgive you; isn't 

it a better thing to raise your voice and tell what you seen, 

than to be making lamentation for a thing that's done? 

Did you see Bartley? I'm saying to you. 
MAURYA (with a weak voice). My heart's broken from this 

day. 
CATHLEEN (as before). Did you see Bartley? 
MAURYA. I seen the fearfulest thing. 
CATHLEEN (leaves her wheel and looks out). God forgive you; 

he's riding the mare now over the green head, and the gray 

pony behind him. 
MAURYA (starts, so that her shawl falls back from her head and 

shows her white tossed hair. With a frightened voice) . The 

gray pony behind him. 
CATHLEEN (coming to the fire). What is it ails you, at all? 
MAURYA (speaking very slowly). I've seen the fearfulest 

thing any person has seen, since the day Bride Dara seen 

the dead man with the child in his arms. 

CATHLEEN AND NORA. Uah. 

[They crouch down in front of the old woman at the fire. 
NORA. Tell us what it is you seen. 
MAURYA. I went down to the spring well, and I stood there 

saying a prayer to myself. Then Bartley came along, and 

he riding on the red mare with the gray pony behind him. 

(She puts up her hands, as if to hide something from her eyes) 

The Son of God spare us, Nora! 
CATHLEEN. What is it you seen? 
MAURYA. I seen Michael himself. 
CATUhE'EN (speaking softly) . You did not, mother. It wasn't 

Michael you seen, for his body is after being found in 

the far north, and he's got a clean burial by the grace of 

God. 
MAURYA (a little defiantly). I'm after seeing him this day. 



RIDERS TO THE SEA 405 

and he riding and galloping. Bartley came first on the red 
mare; and I tried to say "God speed you," but something 
choked the words in my throat. He went by quickly; 
and "the blessing of God on you," says he, and I could 
say nothing. I looked up then, and I crying, at the gray 
pony, and there was Michael upon it — with fine clothes 
on him, and new shoes on his feet. 

CATHLEEN (begins to keen). It's destroyed we are from this 
day. It's destroyed, surely. 

NORA. Didn't the young priest say the Almighty God 
wouldn't leave her destitute with no son living? 

MAURYA {in a low voice, hut clearly). It's little the like of 
him knows of the sea. . . . Bartley will be lost now, and 
let you call in Eamon and make me a good cofiin out of 
the white boards, for I won't live after them. I've had a 
husband, and a husband's father, and six sons in this 
house — six fine men, though it was a hard birth I had with 
every one of them and they coming to the world — and 
some of them were found and some of them were not found, 
but they're gone now the lot of them. . . . There were 
Stephen, and Shawn, were lost in the great wind, and 
found after in the Bay of Gregory of the Golden Moiith, 
and carried up the two of them on the one plank, and in by 
that door. 

[She pauses for a moment, the girls start as if they heard 
something through the door that is half open behind them. 

NORA (in a whisper). Did you hear that, Cathleen? Did 
you hear a noise in the north-east.'' 

CATHLEEN (in a whisper). There's some one after cry- 
ing out by the seashore. 

MAURYA (continues without hearing anything). There was 
Sheamus and his father, and his own father again, were lost 
in a dark night, and not a stick or sign was seen of them 
when the sun went up. There was Patch after was 
drowned out of a curagh that turned over. I was sitting 
here with Bartley, and he a baby, lying on my two knees, 
and I seen two women, and three women, and four women 



406 RIDERS TO THE SEA 

coming in, and they crossing themselves, and not saying 
a word. I looked out then, and there were men coming 
after them, and they holding a thing in the half of a red 
sail, and water dripping out of it — it was a dry day, 
Nora — and leaving a track to the door. (She pauses again 
with her hand stretched out towards the door. It opens 
softly and old women begin to come in, crossing themselves on 
the threshold, and kneeling down in front of the stage with red 
petticoats over their heads. Half in a dream, to Cathleen) 
Is it Patch, or Michael, or what is it at all? 

CATHLEEN. Michacl is after being found in the far north, and 
when he is found there how could he be here in this place? 

MAURYA. There does be a power of young men floating 
round in the sea, and what way would they know if it 
was Michael they had, or another man like him, for when 
a man is nine days in the sea, and the wind blowing, it's 
hard set his own mother would be to say what man was it. 

CATHLEEN. It's Michael, God spare him, for they're after 
sending us a bit of his clothes from the far north. 
[She reaches out and hands Maurya the clothes that belonged 
to Michael. Maurya stands up slowly, and takes them in 
her hands. Nora looks out. 

NORA. They're carrying a thing among them and there's 
water dripping out of it and leaving a track by the big 
stones. 

CATHLEEN (in a whisper to the women who. have come in). Is 
it Bartley it is? 

ONE OF THE WOMEN. It is surcly, God rest his soul. 

[Two younger women come in and pull out the table. Then 
men carry in the body of Bartley, laid on a plank, with a bit 
of a sail over it, and lay it on the table. 

CATHLEEN (to the womcu, as they are doing so). What way 
was he drowned? 

ONE OF THE WOMEN. The gray pony knocked him into the 
sea, and he was washed out where there is a great surf 
on the white rocks. 
[Maurya has gone over and knelt down at the head of the table. 



RIDERS TO THE SEA 407 

The women are keening softly and swaying themselves with 
a slow movement. Cathleen and Nora kneel at the other end 
of the table. The men kneel at the door. 

MAURYA (raising her head and speaking as if she did not see 
the people around her). They're all gone now, and there 
isn't anything more the sea can do to me. . . . I'll have 
no call now to be up crying and praying when the wind 
breaks from the south, and you can hear the surf is in the 
east, and the surf is in the west, making a great stir with 
the two noises, and they hitting one on the other. I'll 
have no call now to be going down and getting Holy Water 
in the dark nights after Samhain, and I won't care what 
way the sea is when the other women will be keening. 
{To Nora) Give me the Holy Water, Nora, there's a 
small sup still on the dresser. (Nora gives it to her. Maurya 
drops Michael's clothes across Bartley's feet, and sprinkles 
the Holy Water over him) It isn't that I haven't prayed 
for you, Bartley, to the Almighty God. It isn't that I 
haven't said prayers in the dark night till you wouldn't 
know what I'd be saying; but it's a great rest I'll have now, 
and it's time surely. It's a great rest I'll have now, and 
great sleeping in the long nights after Samhain, if it's 
only a bit of wet flour we do have to eat, and maybe a 
fish that would be stinking. 

[She kneels down again, crossing herself, and saying prayers 
under her breath. 

CATHLEEN (to an old man). Maybe yourself and Eamon 
would make a coffin when the sun rises. We have fine 
white boards herself bought, God help her, thinking 
Michael would be found, and I have a new cake you can 
eat while you'll be working. 

THE OLD MAN (looklug at the boards). Are there nails with 
them? 

CATHLEEN. There are not, Colum; we didn't think of the 
nails. 

ANOTHER MAN. It's a great wonder she wouldn't think of 
the nails, and all the coffins she's seen made already. 



408 RIDERS TO THE SEA 

CATHLEEN. It's getting old she is, and broken. 

[Maurya stands up again very slowly and spreads out the 
pieces of Michael's clothes beside the body, sprinkling them 
with the last of the Holy Water. 

NORA (in a whisper to Cathleen). She's quiet now and easy; 
but the day Michael was drowned you could hear her cry- 
ing put from this to the spring well. It's fonder she was 
of Michael, and would any one have thought that.?^ 

CATHLEEN {slowly and clearly). An old woman will be soon 
tired with anything she will do, and isn't it nine days 
herself is after crying and keening, and making great sor- 
row in the house? 

MAURYA {puts the empty cup mouth downwards on the table, 
and lays her hands together on Bartley's feet). They're all 
together this time, and the end is come. May the Al- 
mighty God have mercy on Bartley's soul, and on Michael's 
soul, and on the souls of Sheamus and Patch, and Stephen 
and Shawn (bending her head) ; and may He have mercy on 
my soul, Nora, and on the soul of every one is left living 
in the world. (She pauses, and the keen rises a little more 
loudly from the women, then sinks away. Continuing) 
Michael has a clean burial in the far north, by the grace of 
the Almighty God. Bartley will have a fine coffin out of 
the white boards, and a deep grave surely. What more 
can we want than that? No man at all can be living for 
ever, and we must be satisfied. 
[She kneels down again and the curtain falls slowly. 



SPREADING THE NEWS 

LADY GREGORY 

Lady Augusta Gregory was born at Roxborough, 
County Gal way, Ireland, in 1859. Unlike most successful 
dramatists, she began writing plays late in life. Her literary 
work before 1904, when her first play appeared, was largely 
the translation and rewriting of early Irish legends and tales. 

Together with Yeats, Edward Martyn, and George Moore 
she founded The Irish Literary Theater late in the nineties, 
which subsequently became the Abbey Theater. Lady 
Gregory is one of the outstanding figures in the modern Irish 
dramatic and literary renascence. In her collections of 
folklore — "Cuchulain of Muirthemne", "Gods and Fight- 
ing Men ", "The Book of Saints and Wonders ", etc., — in her 
many plays, in her lectures and articles, she has contributed 
more than any one else, except Yeats, to the success of the 
"movement." 

Her best plays (that is, her comedies) were written in order 
to furnish relief to the more somber pieces which at one 
time threatened to overbalance the repertory of the Abbey 
Theater. There were few light plays available, and in spite 
of the fact that Lady Gregory's first dramatic idea came to 
her not as a comedy, but as a serious play, she wrote " Spread- 
ing the News." Of this she says: "The idea of this play 
first came to me as a tragedy. ... But comedy and not 
tragedy was wanted at our theater to put beside the high 
poetic work, 'The King's Threshold', 'The Shadowy 
Waters', 'On Baile's Strand', 'The Well of the Saints', 
and I let laughter have its way with the little play." 

In "Spreading the News" Lady Gregory found the type of 
play she could best do. This was followed by "Hyacinth 
Halvey ", "The Jackdaw ", "The Rising of the Moon ", and 



410 SPREADING THE NEWS 

"The Workhouse Ward", which are among the few genuine 
comedies of modern times. 

PLAYS 

♦Spreading the News (1904) *The Workhouse Ward 
Kincora (1905) (1908) 

The White Cockade (1905) The Image (1909) 

*Hyacinth Halvey (1906) *The Traveling Man (1909) 

*The Gaol Gate (1906) *The Full Moon (1910) 

TheCanavans (1906) *Coats (1910) 
*The Jackdaw (1907) The Deliverer (1911) 

*The Rising of the Moon *McDonough's Wife (1912) 

(1907) Grania (1912) 

Devorgilla (1907) *The Bogie Men (1912) 

The Unicorn from the Stars *Damer's Gold (1912) 
(1907) The Golden Apple (1916) 

(In collaboration with The Dragon (1920) 
W. B. Yeats) 

"Spreading the News", "Hyacinth Halvey", "The Gaol 
Gate", "The Jackdaw", "The Rising of the Moon", "The 
Workhouse Ward ", and "The Traveling Man" are published 
in "Seven Short Plays ", by G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York; 
"Grania", "Kincora", " Dervorgilla ", "The Canavans", 
"The White Cockade ", and "The Deliverer" in two volumes 
of "Folk-History Plays", by Putnam; "The Full Moon", 
"Coats", "McDonough's Wife", "The Bogie Men", and 
"Darner's Gold" in "New Comedies", by Putnam; "The 
Golden Apple" and "The Dragon" separately, by Putnam; 
and "The Image", separately, by Maunsel and Company, 
Dublin. 

References: Lady Gregory, "Our Irish Theater", G. P. 
Putnam's Sons, New York. 

Magazines: Quarterly Review, vol. ccxv, p. 234, London; 
Collier's Weekly, vol. xlviii, p. 465, New York; Contemporary 
Review, vol. cii, p. 602, London; The Independent, vol. Ixxiv, p. 
857, New York; The Living Age, vol. cclxxxi, p. 332, Boston. 



SPREADING THE NEWS 



By lady GREGORY 



"Spreading the News" was first produced at Dublin in 
1904. 

Characters 

Bartley Fallon 

Mrs. Fallon 

Jack Smith 

Shawn Early 

Tim Casey 

James Ryan 

Mrs. Tarpey 

Mrs. Tully 

A Policeman (Jo Muldoon) 

A Removable Magistrate 



COPTHIQHT, 1903, BY LaDT GbEGOBT. 

AU rights reserved. 

Reprinted from "Seven Short Plays ", by permission of the publishers, Messrs. 
G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. . -o i.i- v. 

Permission to perform this play must be secured from Samuel French, PubUsher, 
28 West 38th Street, New York City. 



SPREADING THE NEWS 

Scene: The Outskirts of a Fair. An Apple Stall. Mrs. 
Tarpey sitting at it. Magistrate and Policeman enter. 
MAGISTRATE. So that is the Fair Green. Cattle and sheep 

and mud. No system. What a repulsive sight! 
POLICEMAN. That is so, indeed. 
MAGISTRATE. I supposc there is a good deal of disorder in 

this place? 
POLICEMAN. There is. 
MAGISTRATE. Common assault? 
POLICEMAN. It's common enough. 
MAGISTRATE. Agrarian crime, no doubt? 
POLICEMAN. That is so. 
MAGISTRATE. Boycotting? Maiming of cattle? Firing into 

houses? 
POLICEMAN. There was one time, and there might be again. 
MAGISTRATE. That is bad. Does it go any farther than that? 
POLICEMAN. Far enough, indeed. 
MAGISTRATE. Homicide, then! This district has been 

shamefully neglected! I will change all that. When I 

was in the Andaman Islands, my system never failed. 

Yes, yes, I will change all that. What has that woman on 

her stall? 
POLICEMAN. Apples mostly — and sweets. 
MAGISTRATE. Just scc if there are any unlicensed goods un- 
derneath — spirits or the like. We had evasions of the 

salt tax in the Andaman Islands. 
POLICEMAN {sniffing cautiously and upsetting a heap of apples). 

I see no spirits here — or salt. 
MAGISTRATE {to Mrs. Tarpey) . Do you know this town well, 

my good woman? 



414 SPREADING THE NEWS 

MRS. TARPEY {holding out some apples). A penny the half- 
dozen, your honour? 
POLICEMAN (shouting). The gentleman is asking do you 

know the town! He's the new magistrate! 
MRS. TARPEY (Hsing and ducking). Do I know the town? 

I do, to be sure. 
MAGISTRATE (shouting). What is its chief business? 
MRS. TARPEY. Business, is it? What business would the 

people here have but to be minding one another's business? 
MAGISTRATE. I mean what trade have they? 
MRS. TARPEY. Not a trade. No trade at all but to be 

talking. 
MAGISTRATE. I shall learn nothing here. 

[James Ryan comes in, pipe in mouth. Seeing Magistrate he 

retreats quickly, taking pipe from mouth. 
MAGISTRATE. The smoke from that man's pipe had a green- 
ish look; he may be growing unlicensed tobacco at home. 

I wish I had brought my telescope to this district. Come 

to the post-office, I will telegraph for it. I found it very 

useful in the Andaman Islands. 

[Magistrate and Policeman go out left. 
MRS. TARPEY. Bad luck to Jo Muldoon, knocking my apples 

this way and that way. (Begins arranging them) Showing 

off he was to the new magistrate. 

[Enter Bartley Fallon and Mrs. Fallon. 
HARTLEY. Indeed it's a poor country and a scarce country 

to be living in. But I'm thinking if I went to America 

it's long ago the day I'd be dead! 
MRS. FALLON. So you might, indeed. 

[She puts her basket on a barrel and begins putting parcels 

in it, taking them from under her cloak. 
BARTLEY. And it's a great expense for a poor man to be 

buried in America. 
MRS. FALLON. Ncvcr fear, Bartley Fallon, but I'll give you 

a good burying the day you'll die. 
BARTLEY. Maybe it's yourself will be buried in the grave- 
yard of Cloonmara before me, Mary Fallon, and I myself 



SPREADING THE NEWS 415 

that will be dying unbeknownst some night, and no one 

a-near me. And the cat itself may be gone straying 

through the country, and the mice squealing over the quilt. 

MRS. FALLON. Leave off talking of dying. It might be 

twenty years you'll be living yet. 
BARTLEY {wi h a deep sigh). I'm thinking if I'll be living at 
the end o" twenty years, it's a very old man 1 11 be then! 
MRS. TARPEY {tums and sees them). Good morrow, Hartley 
Fallon; good morrow, Mrs. Fallon. Well, Bartley, you'll 
find no cause for complaining to-day; they are all saying 
it was a good fair. 
BARTLEY {raising his voice). It was not a good fair, Mrs. 
Tarpey. It was a scattered sort of a fair. If we didn't 
expect more, we got less. That's the way with me always; 
whatever I have to sell goes down and whatever I have to 
buy goes up. If there's ever any misfortune coming to 
this world, it's on myself it pitches, like a flock of crows on 
seed potatoes. 
MRS. FALLON. Lcave off talking of misfortunes and listen 
to Jack Smith that is coming the way, and he singing. 
[Voice of Jack Smith heard singing: 
I thought, my first love, 

There'd be but one house between you and me. 
And I thought I would find 

Yourself coaxing my child on your knee. 
Over the tide 

I would leap with the leap of a swan, 
Till I came to the side 

Of the wife of the Red-haired man! 
[Jack Smith comes in; he is a red-haired man, and is carrying 
a hayfork. 
MRS. TARPEY. That should be a good song if I had my hearing. 
MRS. FALLON (shouiing). It's "The Red-haired Man's 

Wiie." 
MRS. TARPEY I kuow it Well. That's the song that has a 
skin on it! 
^She turns her back to them and goes on arranging her apples. 



416 SPREADING THE NEWS 

MRS. FALLON. Wlierc's herself, Jack Smith? 

JACK SMITH. She was delayed with her washing; bleaching 
the clothes on the hedge she is, and she daren't leave them, 
with all the tinkers that do be passing to the fair. It 
isn't to the fair I came myself, but up to the Five Acre 
Meadow I'm going, where I have a contract for the hay. 
We'll get a share of it into tramps to-day. 
[He lays down hayfork and lights his pipe. 

BARTLEY. You will not get it into tramps to-day. The rain 
will be down on it by evening, and on myself too. It's 
seldom I ever started on a journey but the rain would 
come down on me before I'd find any place of shelter. 

JACK SMITH. If it didn't itself, Bartley, it is my belief you 
would carry a leaky pail on your head in place of a hat, 
the way you'd not be without some cause of complaining. 
[A voice heard "Go on, now, go on out o' that. Go on, I say.'' 

JACK SMITH. Look at that young mare of Pat Ryan's that 
is backing into Shaughnessy's bullocks with the dint of 
the crowd! Don't be daunted, Pat, I'll give you a hand 
with her. 
[He goes out, leaving his hayfork. 

MRS. FALLON. It's time for ourselves to be going home. I 
have all I bought put in the basket. Look at there, Jack 
Smith's hayfork he left after him! He'll be wanting it. 
(Calls) Jack Smith! Jack Smith! — He's gone through 
the crowd — hurry after him, Bartley, he'll be wanting it. 

BARTLEY. I'll do that. This is no safe place to be leaving 
it. (He takes up fork awkwardly and upsets the baskets) 
Look at that now! If there is any basket in the fair 
upset, it must be our own basket ! 
[He goes out to right. 

MRS. FALLON. Get out of that! It is your own fault, it is. 
Talk of misfortunes and misfortunes will come. Glory be " 
Look at my new egg-cups rolling in every part — and my 
two pound of sugar with the paper broke 

MRS. TARPEY (turning fvom stall). God help us, Mrs. Fallon, 
what happened your basket? 



SPREADING THE NEWS 417 

MRS. FALLON. It's himself that knocked it down, bad man- 
ners to him. (Putting things up) My grand sugar that's 
destroyed, and he'll not drink his tea without it. I had 
best go back to the shop for more, much good may it do 
him! 
[Enter Tim Casey. 

TIM CASEY. Where is Bartley Fallon, Mrs. Fallon? I want 
a word with him before he'll leave the fair. I was afraid 
he might have gone home by this, for he's a temperate man. 

MRS. FALLON. I wish he did go home! It'd be best for me 
if he went home straight from the fair green, or if he never 
came with me at all! Where is he, is it? He's gone up 
the road (jerks elbow) following Jack Smith with a hayfork. 
[She goes out to left. 

TIM CASEY. Following Jack Smith with a hayfork! Did 
ever any one hear the like of that. (Shouts) Did you 
hear that news, Mrs. Tarpey? 

MRS. TARPEY. I heard no news at all. 

TIM CASEY. Some dispute I suppose it was that rose be- 
tween Jack Smith and Bartley Fallon, and it seems Jack 
made off, and Bartley is following him with a hayfork! 

MRS. TARPEY. Is he now? Well, that was quick work! It's 
not ten minutes since the two of them were here. Bartley 
going home and Jack going to the Five Acre Meadow; and 
I had my apples to settle up, that Jo Muldoon of the police 
had scattered, and when I looked round again Jack Smith 
was gone, and Bartley Fallon was gone, and Mrs. Fallon's 
basket upset, and all in it strewed upon the ground — 
the tea here — the two pound of sugar there — the egg- 
cups there — Look, now, what a great hardship the deaf- 
ness puts upon me, that I didn't hear the commincement 
of the fight! Wait till I tell James Ryan that I see be- 
low, he is a neighbour of Bartley 's, it would be a pity if he 
wouldn't hear the news! 
[She goes out. Enter Shawn Early and Mrs. Tully. 

TIM CASEY. Listen, Shawn Early! Listen, Mrs. Tully, to 
the news! Jack Smith and Bartley Fallon had a falling 



418 SPREADING THE NEWS 

out, and Jack knocked Mrs. Fallon's basket into the road, 

and Bartley made an attack on him with a hayfork, and 

away with Jack, and Bartley after him. Look at the sugar 

here yet on the road! 
SHAWN EARLY. Do you tell me so? Well, that's a queer 

thing, and Bartley Fallon so quiet a man! 
MRS. TULLY. I Wouldn't wonder at all. I would never think 

well of a man that would have that sort of a mouldering 

look. It's likely he has overtaken Jack by this. 

[Enter James Ryan and Mrs. Tarpey. 
JAMES RYAN. That is great news Mrs. Tarpey was telling 

me! I suppose that's what brought the police and the 

magistrate up this way. I was wondering to see them in 

it a while ago. 
SHAWN EARLY. The police after them.'' Bartley Fallon must 

have injured Jack so. They wouldn't meddle in a fight 

that was only for show! 
MRS. TULLY. Wliy Wouldn't he injure him? There was 

many a man killed with no more of a weapon than a 

hayfork. 
JAMES RYAN. Wait till I run north as far as Kelly's bar to 

spread the news! 

[He goes out. 
TIM CASEY. I'll go tell Jack Smith's first cousin that is 

standing there south of the church after selling his lambs. 

[Goes out. 
MRS. TULLY. I'll go telling a few of the neighbours I see 

beyond to the west. 

[Goes out. 
SHAWN EARLY. I'll givc word of it beyond at the east of the 

green. 

[Is going out when Mrs. Tarpey seizes hold of him. 
MRS. TARPEY. Stop a minute, Shawn Early, and tell me did 

you see red Jack Smith's wife, Eatty Keary, in any place? 
SHAWN EARLY. I did. At her own house she was, drying 

clothes on the hedge as I passed. 
MRS. TARPEY. What did you say she was doing.-' 



SPREADING THE NEWS 419 

SHAWN EARLY {breaking away). Laying out a sheet on the 
hedge. 
[He goes. 

MRS. TARPEY. Laying out a sheet for the dead! The Lord 
have mercy on us! Jack Smith dead, and his wife laying 
out a sheet for his burying ! {Calls out) Why didn't you 
tell me that before, Shawn Early? Isn't the deafness the 
great hardship? Half the world might be dead without 
me knowing of it or getting word of it at all! {She sits 
down and rocks herself) O my poor Jack Smith! To be 
going to his work so nice and so hearty, and to be left 
stretched on the ground in the full light of the day ! 
[Enter Tim Casey. 

TIM CASEY. Whatisit, Mrs. Tarpey? What happened since? 

MRS. TARPEY. O my poor Jack Smith! 

TIM CASEY. Did Bartley overtake him? 

MRS. TARPEY. O the poor man ! 

TIM CASEY. Is it killed he is? 

MRS. TARPEY. Stretched in the Five Acre Meadow! 

TIM CASEY. The Lord have mercy on us! Is that a fact? 

MRS. TARPEY, Without the rites of the Church or a ha'porth ! 

TIM CASEY. Who was telling you? 

MRS. TARPEY. And the wife laying out a sheet for his 
corpse, {Sits up and wipes her eyes) I suppose they'll 
wake him the same as another? 
[Enter Mrs. Tully, Shawn Early, and James Ryan. 

MRS. TULLY. There is great talk about this work in every 
quarter of the fair. 

MRS. TARPEY. Ochoue! cold and dead. And myself maybe 
the last he was speaking to! 

JAMES RYAN. The Lord save us! Is it dead he is? 

TIM CASEY. Dead surely, and the wife getting provision for 
the wake. 

SHAWN EARLY. Well, now, hadn't Bartley Fallon great 
venom in him? 

MRS. TULLY. You may be sure he had some cause. Why 
would he have made an end of him if he had not? {To 



420 SPREADING THE NEWS 

Mrs. Tarpey, raising her voice) What was it rose the dis- 
pute at all, Mrs. Tarpey? 

MRS. TARPEY. Not a one of me knows. The last I saw of 
them. Jack Smith was standing there, and Bartley Fallon 
was standing there, quiet and easy, and he listening to 
"The Red-haired Man's Wife." 

MRS. TULLY. Do you hear that, Tim Casey .f* Do you hear 
that, Shawn Early and James Ryan.f* Bartley Fallon was 
here this morning listening to red Jack Smith's wife, 
Kitty Keary that was! Listening to her and whispering 
with her! It was she started the fight so! 

SHAWN EARLY. She must have followed him from her own 
house. It is likely some person roused him. 

TIM CASEY. I never knew, before, Bartley Fallon was great 
with Jack Smith's wife. 

MRS. TULLY. How would you know it? Sure it's not 
in the streets they would be calling it. If Mrs. Fallon 
didn't know of it, and if I that have the next house to 
them didn't know of it, and if Jack Smith himself didn't 
know of it, it is not likely you would know of it, Tim 
Casey. 

SHAWN EARLY. Let Bartley Fallon take charge of her from 
this out so, and let him provide for her. It is little pity 
she will get from any person in this parish. 

TIM CASEY. How cau he take charge of her? Sure he has a 
wife of his own. Sure you don't think he'd turn souper and 
marry her in a Protestant church? 

JAMES RYAN. It would be easy for him to marry her if he 
brought her to America. 

SHAWN EARLY. With or without Kitty Keary, believe me it 
is for America he's making at this minute. I saw the new 
magistrate and Jo Muldoon of the police going into the 
post-oflSce as I came up — there was hurry on them — you 
may be sure it was to telegraph they went, the way he'll 
be stopped in the docks at Queenstown! 

MRS. TULLY. It's likely Kitty Keary is gone with him, and 
not minding a sheet or a wake at all. The poor man, to 



i 



SPREADING THE NEWS 421 

be deserted by his own wife, and the breath hardly gone 
out yet from his body that is lying bloody in the field! 
[Enter Mrs. Fallon. 

MRS. FALLON. What is it the whole of the town is talking 
about? And what is it you yourselves are talking about? 
Is it about my man Bartley Fallon you are talking? Is it 
lies about him you are telling, saying that he went killing 
Jack Smith? My grief that ever he came into this place 
at all! 

JAMES RYAN. Be casy now, Mrs. Fallon. Sure there is no 
one at all in the whole fair but is sorry for you ! 

MRS. FALLON. Sorry for me, is it? Why would anyone be 
sorry for me? Let you be sorry for yourselves, and that 
there may be shame on you for ever and at the day of 
judgment, for the words you are saying and the lies you 
are telling to take away the character of my poor man, and 
to take the good name off of him, and to drive him to de- 
struction! That is what you are doing! 

SHAWN EARLY. Take comfort now, Mrs. Fallon. The 
police are not so smart as they think. Sure he might give 
them the slip yet, the same as Lynchehaun. 

MRS. TULLY, If they do get him, and if they do put a rope 
around his neck, there is no one can say he does not deserve 
it! 

MRS. FALLON. Is that what you are saying, Bridget Tully, 
and is that what you think? I tell you it's too much talk 
you have, making yourself out to be such a great one, and 
to be running down every respectable person! A rope, is 
it? It isn't much of a rope was needed to tie up your own 
furniture the day you came into Martin Tully's house, 
and you never bringing as much as a blanket, or a j>enny, 
or a suit of clothes with you, and I myself bringing seventy 
pounds and two feather beds. And now you are stiff er 
than a woman would have a hundred pounds! It is too 
much talk the whole of you have. A rope, is it? I tell 
you the whole of this town is full of liars and schemers 
that would hang you up for half a glass of whiskey. 



422 SPREADING THE NEWS 

(Turning to go) People they are you wouldn't believe as 
much as daylight from without you'd get up to have a look 
at it yourself. Killing Jack Smith indeed! Where are 
you at all, Bartley, till I bring you out of this? My nice, 
quiet little man! My decent comrade! He that is as 
kind and as harmless as an innocent beast of the field! 
He'll be doing no harm at all if he'll shed the blood of 
some of you after this day's work ! That much would be 
no harm at all. (Calls out) Bartley! Bartley Fallon! 
Where are you? (Going out) Did anyone see Bartley 
Fallon? 
[All turn to look after her. 

JAMES RYAN. It is hard for her to believe any such a thing, 
God help her! 
[Enter Bartley Fallon from right, carrying hayfork. 

BARTLEY. It is what I often said to myself, if there is ever 
any misfortune coming to this world, it is on myself it is 
sure to come! (All turn round and face him) To be going 
about with this fork, and to find no one to take it, and no 
place to leave it down, and I wanting to be gone out of 
this. — Is that you, Shawn Early? (Holds out fork) It's 
well I met you. You have no call to be leaving the fair 
for a while the way I have, and how can I go till I'm rid 
of this fork? Will you take it and keep it until such time 
as Jack Smith 

SHAWN EARLY (backing). I will not take it, Bartley Fallon, 
I'm very thankful to you! 

BARTLEY (turning to apple stall). Look at it now, Mrs. Tar- 
pey, it was here I got it; let me thrust it in under the stall. 
It will lie there safe enough, and no one will take notice 
of it until such time as Jack Smith 

MRS. TARPEY. Take your fork out of that! Is it to put 
trouble on me and to destroy me you want? putting it 
there for the police to be rooting it out maybe. 
[Thrusts him back. 

BARTLEY. That is a very unneighbourly thing for you to do, 
Mrs. Tarpey. Hadn't I enough care on me with that fork 



SPREADING THE NEWS 423 

before this, running up and down with it hke the swinging 

of a clock, and afeared to lay it down in any place I wish 

I never touched it or meddled with it at all ! 
JAMES RYAN. It is a pity, indeed, you ever did. 
BARTLEY. Will you yoursclf take it, James Ryan? You 

were always a neighbourly man. 
JAMES RYAN (backing). There is many a thing I would do 

for you, Bartley Fallon, but I won't do that! 
SHAWN EARLY. I tell you there is no man will give you any 

help or any encouragement for this day's work. If it 

was something agrarian now 

BARTLEY. If uo one at all will take it, maybe it's best to 

give it up to the police. 
TIM CASEY. There'd be a welcome for it with them, surely! 

[Laughter. 
MRS. TULLY. And it is to the police Kitty Keary herself will 

be brought. 
MRS. TARPEY (rocJciug to and fro). I wonder now who will 

take the expense of the wake for poor Jack Smith? 
BARTLEY. The wakc for Jack Smith! 
TIM CASEY. Why wouldn't he get a wake as well as another? 

Would you begrudge him that much? 
BARTLEY. Red Jack Smith dead! Who was telling you? 
SHAWN EARLY. The whole town knows of it by this. 
BARTLEY. Do they say what way did he die? 
JAMES RYAN. You don't know that yourself, I suppose, 

Bartley Fallon? You don't know he was followed and 

that he was laid dead with the stab of a hayfork? 
BARTLEY. The stab of a hayfork ! 
SHAWN EARLY. You don't kuow, I suppose, that the body 

was found in the Five Acre Meadow? 
BARTLEY. The Fivc Acre Meadow! 
TIM CASEY. It is likely you don't know that the police are 

after the man that did it? 
BARTLEY. The man that did it ! 
MRS. TULLY. You don't know, maybe, that he was made 

away with for the sake of Kitty Keary, his wife? 



424 SPREADING THE NEWS 

BARTLEY. Kitty Keary, his wife! 

[Sits down beivildered. 
MRS. TULLY. And what have you to say now, Bartley Fallon? 
HARTLEY (crossiug himself). I to bring that fork here, and 

to find that news before me ! It is much if I can ever stir 

from this place at all, or reach as far as the road ! 
TIM CASEY. Look, boys, at the new magistrate, and Jo 

Muldoon along with him ! It's best for us to quit this. 
SHAWN EARLY. That is SO. It is best not to be mixed in 

this business at all. 
JAMES RYAN. Bad as he is, I wouldn't like to be an informer 

against any man. 

[All hurry away except Mrs. Tarpey, who remains behind 

her stall. Enter magistrate and policeman. 
MAGISTRATE. I knew the district was in a bad state, but I 

did not expect to be confronted with a murder at the first 

fair I came to. 
POLICEMAN. I am sure you did not, indeed. 
MAGISTRATE. It was Well I had not gone home. I caught a 

few words here and there that roused my suspicions. 
POLICEMAN. So they would, too. 
MAGISTRATE. You heard the same story from everyone you 

asked .f^ 
POLICEMAN. The same story — or if it was not altogether the 

same, anyway it was no less than the first story. 
MAGISTRATE. What is that man doing? He is sitting alone 

with a hayfork. He has a guilty look. The murder was 

done with a hayfork! 
POLICEMAN {in a whisper). That's the very man they say 

did the act; Bartley Fallon himself! 
MAGISTRATE. He must have found escape diflficult — he is 

trying to brazen it out. A convict in the Andaman Islands 

tried the same game, but he could not escape my system! 

Stand aside — Don't go far — have the handcuffs ready. 

{He walks up to Bartley, folds his arms, and stands before 

him) Here, my man, do you know anything of John 

Smith? 



SPREADING THE NEWS 425 

BARTLEY. Of John Smith! Who is he, now? 

POLICEMAN. Jack Smith, sir — Red Jack Smith! 

MAGISTRATE {comiug a step nearer and tapping him on the 
shoulder). Where is Jack Smith? 

BARTLEY {with a deep sigh, and shaking his head slowly). 
Where is he, indeed? 

MAGISTRATE. What have you to tell? 

BARTLEY. It is whcre he was this morning, standing in this 
spot, singing his share of songs — no, but lighting his pipe 
— scraping a match on the sole of his shoe 

MAGISTRATE. I ask you, for the third time, where is he? 

BARTLEY. I would like to say that it is a great mystery, 
and it is hard to say of any man, did he earn hatred or love. 

MAGISTRATE. Tell me all you laiow. 

BARTLEY. All that I know — Well, there are the three 
estates; there is Limbo, and there is Purgatory, and there 
is 

MAGISTRATE. Nonseusc! This is trifling! Get to the 
point. 

BARTLEY. Maybe you don't hold with the clergy so? That 
is the teaching of the clergy. Maybe you hold with the 
old people. It is what they do be saying, that the shadow 
goes wandering, and the soul is tired, and the body is 
taking a rest — The shadow ! (Starts up) I was nearly 
sure I saw Jack Smith not ten minutes ago at the corner 
of the forge, and I lost him again — Was it his ghost I 
saw, do you think? 

MAGISTRATE (to poUceman). Conscience-struck! He will con- 
fess all now! 

BARTLEY. His ghost to come before me! It is Ukely it was 
on account of the fork! I to have it and he to have no 
way to defend himself the time he met with his death ! 

MAGISTRATE (to poHceman). I must note down his words. 
{Takes out notebook. To Bartley) I warn you that your 
words are being noted. 

BARTLEY. If I had ha' run faster in the beginning, this 
terror would not be on me at the latter end! Maybe he 



426 SPREADING THE NEWS 

will cast it up against me at the day of judgment — I 
wouldn't wonder at all at that. 

MAGISTRATE (writing). At the day of judgment 

BARTLEY. It was soon for his ghost to appear to me — is 
it coming after me always by day it will be, and stripping 
the clothes off in the night time? — I wouldn't wonder 
at all at that, being as I am an unfortunate man! 

MAGISTRATE (stemly). Tell me this truly. What was the 
motive of this crime? 

BARTLEY. The motive, is it? 

MAGISTRATE. Yes; the motive; the cause. 

BARTLEY. I'd sooucr uot say that. 

MAGISTRATE. You had better tell me truly. Was it money? 

BARTLEY. Not at all ! What did poor Jack Smith ever have 
in his pockets unless it might be his hands that would be 
in them? 

MAGISTRATE. Any dispute about land? 

BARTLEY (indignantly) . Not at all ! He never was a grabber 
or grabbed from anyone! 

MAGISTRATE. You wiU find it better for you if you tell me 
at once. 

BARTLEY. I tell you I wouldu't for the whole world wish 
to say what it was — it is a thing I would not like to be 
talking about. 

MAGISTRATE. There is no use in hiding it. It will be dis- 
covered in the end. 

BARTLEY. Well, I suppose it will, seeing that mostly every- 
body knows it before. Whisper here now. I will tell no 
lie; where would be the use? (Puts his hand to his mouth, 
and Magistrate stoops) Don't be putting the blame on 
the parish, for such a thing was never done in the parish 
before — it was done for the sake of Kitty Keary, Jack 
Smith's wife. 

MAGiSTHATE (to policeman) . Put on the handcuffs. We have 
been saved some trouble. I knew he would confess if 
taken in the right way. 
[Policeman puts on handcuffs. 



SPREADING THE NEWS 427 

BARTLEY, Handcuffs now! Glory be. I always said, if 
there was ever any misfortune coming to this place it was 
on myself it would fall. I to be in handcuffs! There's 
no wonder at all in that. 

[Enter Mrs. Fallon, followed hy the rest. She is looking 
back at them as she speaks. 

MRS. FALLON. Telling lies the whole of the people of this 
town are; telling lies, telling lies as fast as a dog will trot! 
Speaking against my poor respectable man! Saying he 
made an end of Jack Smith ! My decent comrade ! There 
is no better man and no kinder man in the whole of the 
five parishes! It's little annoyance he ever gave to any- 
one! {Turns and sees him) What in the earthly world 
do I see before me.'* Hartley Fallon in charge of the police ! 
Handcuffs on him! O Bartley, what did you do at all 
at all? 

BARTLEY. O Mary, there has a great misfortune come upon 
me! It is what I always said, that if there is ever any 
misfortune 

MRS. FALLON. What did he do at all, or is it bewitched I am? 

MAGISTRATE. This man has been arrested on a charge of 
murder. 

MRS. FALLON. Whose charge is that? Don't believe them! 
They are all liars in this place! Give me back my man! 

MAGISTRATE. It is natural you should take his part, but you 
have no cause of complaint against your neighbours. He 
has been arrested for the murder of John Smith, on his own 
confession. 

MRS. FALLON. The saints of heaven protect us ! And what 
did he want killing Jack Smith? 

MAGISTRATE. It is best you should know all. He did it on 
account of a love affair with the murdered man's wife. 

MRS. FALLON (sitting down). With Jack Smith's wife! 
With Kitty Keary ! Ochone, the traitor ! 

THE CROWD. A great shame, indeed. He is a traitor, indeed. 

MRS. TULLY. To America he was bringing her, Mrs. Fallon. 

BARTLEY. What are you saying, Mary? I tell you 



428 SPREADING THE NEWS 

MRS. FALLON. Don't say a word! I won't listen to any 
word you'll say ! (Stops her ears) O, isn't he the treach- 
erous villain.'' Ohone go deo! 

HARTLEY. Be quiet till I speak! Listen to what I say! 

MRS. FALLON. Sitting beside me on the ass car coming to 
the town, so quiet and so respectable, and treachery like 
that in his heart! 

BARTLEY. Is it youF wits you havc lost or is it I myself that 
have lost my wits.? 

MRS. FALLON. And it's hard I earned you slaving, slaving — 
and you grumbling, and sighing, and coughing, and dis- 
contented, and the priest wore out anointing you, with 
all the times you threatened to die! 

BARTLEY. Let you be quiet till I tell you! 

MRS. FALLON. You to bring such a disgrace into the parish! 
A thing that was never heard of before! 

BARTLEY. Will you shut your mouth and hear me speaking .f^ 

MRS. FALLON. And if it was for any sort of a fine handsome 
woman, but for a little fistful of a woman like Kitty Keary, 
that's not four feet high hardly, and not three teeth in her 
head unless she got new ones! May God reward you, 
Bartley Fallon, for the black treachery in your heart and 
the wickedness in your mind, and the red blood of poor 
Jack Smith that is wet upon your hand! 
[Voice of Jack Smith heard singing 

The Sea shall be dry. 

The earth under mourning and ban! 
Then loud shall he cry 

For the wife of the red-haired man! 

BARTLEY. It's Jack Smith's voice — I never knew a ghost 
to sing before — . It is after myself and the fork he is 
coming! (Goes back. Enter Jack Smith) Let one of 
you give him the fork and I will be clear of him now and 
for eternity! 

MRS. TARPEY. The Lord have mercy on us. Red Jack Smith ! 
The man that was going to be waked ! 



SPREADING THE NEWS 429 

JAMES RYAN. Is it back from the grave you are come? 

SHAWN EARLY. Is it alivc you are, or is it dead you are.'' 

TIM CASEY. Is it yourself at all that's in it? 

MRS. TULLY. Is it letting on you were to be dead? 

MRS. FALLON. Dead or alive, let you stop Kitty Keary, 

your wife, from bringing my man away with her to 

America ! 
JACK SMITH. It Is what I think, the wits are gone astray on 

the whole of you. What would my wife want bringing 

Bartley Fallon to America? 
MRS. FALLON. To leave yourself, and to get quit of you she 

wants, Jack Smith, and to bring him away from myself. 

That's what the two of them had settled together. 
JACK SMITH. I'll break the head of any man that says that! 

Who is it says it? (To Tim Casey) Was it you said it? 

(To Shawn Early) Was it you? 
ALL TOGETHER (backing and shaking their heads). It wasn't 

I said it ! 
JACK SMITH. Tell me the name of any man that said it ! 
ALL TOGETHER (pointing to Bartley). It was him that 

said it! 
JACK SMITH. Let me at him till I break his head ! 

[Bartley backs in terror. Neighbours hold Jack Smith back. 
JACK SMITH (trying to free himself). Let me at him! Isn't 

he the pleasant sort of a scarecrow for any woman to be 

crossing the ocean with ! It's back from the docks of New 

York he'd be turned (trying to rush at him again), with a 

lie in his mouth and treachery in his heart, and another 

man's wife by his side, and he passing her ofiF as his own! 

Let me at him, can't you. 

[Makes another rush, but is held back. 
MAGISTRATE (pointing to Jack Smith). Policeman, put the 

handcuffs on this man. I see it all now. A case of false 

impersonation, a conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice. 

There was a case in the Andaman Islands, a murderer of 

the Mopsa tribe, a religious enthusiast 

POLICEMAN. So he might be, too. 



430 SPREADING THE NEWS 

MAGISTRATE. We must take both these men to the scene 

of the murder. We must confront them with the body of 

the real Jack Smith. 
JACK SMITH. I'll break the head of any man that will find 

my dead body! 
MAGISTRATE. I'll Call moFC help from the barracks. 

[Blows Policeman's whistle. 
HARTLEY. It is what I am thinking, if myself and Jack 

Smith are put together in the one cell for the night, the 

handcuffs will be taken off him, and his hands will be free, 

and murder will be done that time surely! 
MAGISTRATE. Come on! 

[They turn to the right. 



THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 

ST. JOHN G. ERVINE 

St. John G. Ervine was born at Belfast, Ireland, in 1883. 
After completing his scholastic education, he entered the 
insurance business, which he soon left for literary work. 
Early in his career he became dramatic critic on the Daily 
Citizen. During a long residence in London Mr. Ervine wrote 
plays, novels, stories, and did miscellaneous newspaper 
work. During the past year he has been dramatic critic on 
The London Observer. During the war, he managed the 
Abbey Theater for a short period, and served in the army. 

Mr. Ervine's earlier plays were produced at the Abbey 
Theater, where he was one of the "younger group" of 
"Realistic" dramatists, who depicted the everyday existence 
of the middle classes in the cities and small towns. 

"The Magnanimous Lover" is an early play, but it reveals 
the dramatist's power, — which was later to develop to 
maturity in "Jane Clegg" and "John Ferguson." Ervine 
excels in the depiction of human character under extraor- 
dinary emotional pressure: the situation in "The Mag- 
nanimous Lover" reveals character at white heat. 

PLAYS 

Mixed Marriage (1911) *The Critics (1913) 

Jane Clegg (1912) John Ferguson (1916) 

*The Magnanimous Lover The Wonderful Visit (1921) 

(1913) (In collaboration with 

*The Orangeman (1913) H. G. Wells) 



432 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 

"Mixed Marriage", "The Magnanimous Lover", "The 
Orangeman", and "The Critics" are published in a volume 
as "Four Irish Plays", Macmillan Company, New York; 
"Jane Clegg" separately by Henry Holt and Company, New 
York; and "John Ferguson" separately by Macmillan 
Company. 

References, Periodicals: Everybody's, vol. xxviii, p. 678, 
New York; New York Sun, August 11, 1918; New York Even- 
ing Post, February 7, 1920, and May 22, 1920; New York 
Times, March 21, 1920; New Republic, March 10, 1920, 
New York. 



THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 



By ST. JOHN G. ERVINE 



"The Magnanimous Lover" was first performed at Dub- 
lin in 1912. 

Characters 

William Gather, A Shoemaker 
Jane Gather, Ris Wife 
Maggie Gather, His Daughter 
Samuel Hinde, A Grocer 
Henry Hinde, His Son 



Copyright, 1912, by St. John G. Ervinb. 

"The Magnanimous Lover" is reprinted, with the permission of the publisher, 
The Macmillan Company, New York, from "Four Irish Plays." This play is fully 
protected, and permission for performance must be secured from the pubhsher. 



THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 

The scene is laid in the kitchen and living room of William 
Cathers cottage in the North-Irish village of Donaghreagh. The 
room is large, and well lighted by the two windows, through which 
the Irish Sea can he seen. The windows are tightly shut, and 
probably have never once been open since they were inserted in 
their frames; but this does not affect the ventilation of the room to 
any great extent, for the cottage door, which is in tim sections, 
is always open either to its full extent or, as now, half open. 

Immediately facing the street door, on the other side of the 
house, is a door leading to the best bedroom. The wall in which 
this bedroom door is placed terminates in another door which 
leads to the scullery and the garden at the back of the house. 
The space in this wall between the two doors is occupied by a 
large dresser, piled with crockery of many hues and shapes. 

A large, round pot is suspended over the open fire which 
burns in the wall stretching between the front and the rear of 
the house, furthest from the street door. Over the mantel-shelf, 
on which are articles of cheap china, a clock and a tea-caddy, 
hangs a large oleograph showing King William the Third in 
the act of crossing the Boyne. On either side of this picture are 
two oblong mottoes prijited in floral letters on a black back- 
ground, the legends reading: "Thou God Seest Me", and, 
"What is Home Without A 31 other." 

Between the tioo windows is a large, unstained deal table 
above which hangs another oleograph, revealing the Secret of 
England'' s Greatness, and a further motto, " There's No Place 
like Home." 

There are other mottoes scattered over the walls; some shield- 
shaped, some oblong, some circular, of smaller size than those 
already mentioned; all bearing texts from the Bible: — "What 
Shall It Profit a Man if He Gain the Whole World, and Lose 



436 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 

His Own Soul." "Jesus Wept." "Blessed are the Humble 
and Meek." "God Is Here." 

It is the afternoon of a late summer day. 

Samuel Hinde puts his head over the lower half-door, which 
is barred. There is no one in the kitchen. 
SAMUEL HINDE. Are you in, Mrs. Gather? 
MRS. GATHER (speaking from the scidlery). Aye, indeed I am. 

{She comes into the kitchen) Och, is that yourself, Sam! 

Sure, come on in. 
SAMUEL HINDE {unbarring the door, and entering). I've some- 
thing very important to say to you, Mrs. Gather. Very 

important. 
MRS. GATHER. Have you, Sam? 
SAMUEL HINDE. Aye. Where's William? 
MRS. GATHER, Aw, he's down the garden. Will I call him? 
SAMUEL HINDE. Aye, I wish you would. 
MRS. GATHER {calling at the scullery door). Hi, William, 

come on in a minute. 
WILLIAM GATHER {answering from the garden). What do you 

want? 
MRS. GATHER. Come ou in a minute. I want you. 
WILLIAM GATHER. All right, I'm coming. 
SAMUEL HINDE. Where's Maggie the day? 
MRS. GATHER. Aw, she's ovcr to Killisle; but sure she'll be 

back soon. Were you wanting her? 
SAMUEL HINDE. Not just yet a wee while. It'll do later. 

[Enter William Cather, a lean, kindly man with a leathern 

apron bound round his loins. 
WILLIAM GATHER. What do you want? {Seeing Samuel 

Hinde) How are you, Sam? 
SAMUEL HINDE. Suic, I'm rightly. I want to talk to you 

a minute. It's about Maggie. 
MRS. GATHER. About Maggie? 
SAMUEL HINDE. Aye, Heury's come back. By the two 

o'clock train. 
MRS. GATHER. Gomc back! {Her voice hardens) Has he 

come back to make Maggie a respectable woman? 



THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 437 

SAMUEL HiNDE. Aye, he has. 

MRS. GATHER. Oh, thank God! 

WILLIAM GATHER. Sit down, wiU you, Sam? 

SAMUEL HINDE. I will in a minute, but I'd better call Henry 

in first. He's just waiting round the corner. 
WILLIAM GATHER. Aye, bring him in, will you. 

[Samuel Hinde goes to the door, and beckons to his soUy Henry 

Hinde, who enters. 
SAMUEL HINDE. Here's Henry, Mrs. Gather. 
MRS. GATHER. How are you, Henry? 
HENRY HINDE. I'm bravely, thank you. How is yourself? 
MRS. GATHER. I'm brave and well, thank you. Sit down, 

will you. 
WILLIAM GATHER. I'm glad to sec you again, Henry. 
HENRY HINDE. Thank you, Mr. Gather. 
WILLIAM GATHER. Your father was saying something about 

you and Maggie, Henry ! . . . . 
SAMUEL HINDE. Aye, I was saying! .... 
WILLIAM GATHER. Maybe, it would be better if Henry was 

to speak for himself, Sam. 
SAMUEL HINDE. Aye, maybe it would. 
HENRY HINDE. Mr. Gather, I did you a great wrong ten 

years ago. 
WILLIAM GATHER. You did, Henry. 
HENRY HINDE. And sorry I am for it. 
WILLIAM GATHER. You could havc bccu sorry sooner with 

advantage. 
HENRY HINDE. I was headstrong and wayward, Mr. Gather. 

I was in the devil's grip; but a change has come over me. 

The old life has dropped away from me, and I've been 

washed in the Blood of the Lamb. 
MRS. GATHER. Are you saved, Henry? 
HENRY HINDE. Ycs, thank God, I've been saved, Mrs. 

Gather. I was a wilful, hell-deserving sinner when I 

lived here. I wanted my own way in everything, and I 

didn't care about nobody else. The devil was in me. 

When I went to Liverpool, after the child was born, I led 



438 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 

a wayward life; but God was watching over me, and He 
saved me at last. I've got on, too, beyond my deserts. 
The Almighty's been very gracious to me. I've got a great 
deal to be thankful for, 

WILLIAM GATHER. I'm glad to hear it, Henry. Maggie! . . . . 

HENRY HiNDE. It's about Maggie I've come back. Yester- 
day morning as I was contemplating God's goodness to 
me, I was wondering what I could do to show my gratitude 
to Him. I owe Him a great debt, and I want to pay Him 
back something. And I heard a voice within me, saying, 
Henry Hinde, you once did a woman a wrong. You left 
her with a bastard child ! . . . . 

MRS. GATHER. Aw, don't say the word, Henry ! 

HENRY HINDE. Isn't it truc, Mrs. Gather? Didn't I leave 
Maggie with a child that I was the father of.'' I was 
headstrong in my sin, and I wouldn't marry her. My sin 
was deep, Mrs. Gather, and you can't make little of it. 
And when I heard the voice of God telling me to go back 
to the woman I had ruined and make her respectable, I 
just took the next boat from Liverpool, and I got to Bel- 
fast this morning, and I came here without a word of 
warning to anyone. 

SAMUEL HINDE. Aye, you could have knocked me down with 
a feather when I saw him standing in the door. Sure, I 
thought it was a ghost. 

HENRY HINDE. I felt it to be my duty to come back. Mind, 
it's not because I couldn't get anyone else. It's because 
it's the will of God. Not my will, O Lord, but Thine be 
done. I could marry a minister's daughter if I wanted to. 

SAMUEL HINDE. Aye, a minister's daughter, mind you. 
Over in Liverpool. An Englishwoman. 

HENRY HINDE. But I put all dcsircs away from me, and came 
back to do the will of God. 

MRS. GATHER (weeping softly). I thank God for this day. 

WILLIAM GATHER (sullenly). Wc'vc waited ten years for the 
voice of God to speak. Ten years is a long time, Henry. 

HENRY HINDE. What is ten years to eternity? 



THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 439 

SAMUEL HiNDE. Aye, indeed, what is it? 

HENRY HINDE. If I had not come back at the bidding of 
God, He might have damned my soul for ever. How was 
I to know that He wasn't testing me as with fire? 

SAMUEL HINDE. Aw, that's truc — that's true! Lord bless 
me, it would be a terrible thing to go to hell. 

HENRY HINDE. Is the child all right? 

WILLIAM GATHER. Aye. He's running about the street 
somewhere. 

SAMUEL HINDE. I was thinking myself the other day, he 
was a wee bit wild. Running about the street too much 
maybe. It's not good for a child to be running about the 
street much. 

MRS. GATHER. Indeed, Sam Hinde, he's not running wild 
about the street. There's no child in Donaghreagh that's 
better looked after nor he is, for all he is — for all his 
mother's not married. 

HENRY HINDE. I feel it's my duty to bring that child up 
in the fear of God. He came from the devil, and he must 
be given to God. Does Maggie go to church regular? 

MRS. GATHER. Not sincc her trouble, Henry. 

HENRY HINDE. She has a soul to be saved, Mrs. Gather, 
and by the help of God I mean to save it. Aw, I'm glad 
I listened to His voice. I feel I shall be the instrument for 
much good in His hands. 

WILLIAM GATHER. Do you mean to marry her? 

HENRY HINDE. I do. It's the will of God that I should. 

SAMUEL HINDE. You know, he could marry a minister's 
daughter if he liked. Over in Liverpool there. And mind 
you, they're queer and particular in England. 

WILLIAM GATHER. I darcsay you're right, Sam, but that's 
not the question. The question is, what will Maggie say? 
You see Henry talks about his duty to God; but he 
doesn't say anything about his duty to Maggie. And 
after all, it was her that was wronged, not God. Not that 
I would make little of our duty to God. There's no man 
knows more about that duty nor I do. But we're men, 



440 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 

Sam, you and Henry and me. Maggie's a woman, and 

women don't think so much of their duty to God as men 

do. It would be a bit awkward for some of us, if they 

did. You don't love Maggie, Henry? 
SAMUEL HiNDE. Och, man alive, didn't I tell you about 

the minister's daughter over in LiverpooLf* It's her he 

loves. 
WILLIAM GATHER. Do you love her, Henry? 
HENRY HINDE. As a fallen sister ! . . . . 
WILLIAM GATHER. Do you love her as a man should love 

the woman he wants to marry? 
HENRY HINDE. I'll do my duty by her. It's a debt I owe 

to God. I'll be a good husband to her, and I'll try to bring 

her to the paths of peace. Will she be long before she 

comes back? 
MRS. GATHER. I dou't kuow. She said she wouldn't be long. 

Maybe, she'll be back soon. 
WILLIAM GATHER. I woudcr If shc'U have you, Henry. 

Women think more of loving a man nor they do of loving 

God. But you never know. I wish she was here. 
HENRY HINDE. I hopc shc won't be long, for I must get 

back to Belfast to catch the boat for Liverpool the night. 

I can't leave the shop more nor a day. 
SAMUEL HINDE. Hc's doiug quccr and well in the shop. 

Aren't you, Henry? 
HENRY HINDE. Aye, the Lord has prospered me. I have 

two assistants and a vanman. The minister thinks a 

terrible lot of me. He took a fancy to me the minute he 

saw me in the chapel. 
MRS. GATHER. Chapel! You've not turned a Catholic, are 

you? 
HENRY HINDE. No, Mrs. Gather, I'm a Protestant, thank 

God. They call churches chapels in England unless they're 

Episcopalian places of worship. They call us Dissenters 

and Nonconformists, and they think far more of Catholics 

than they do of us. 
MRS. GATHER. Heth, it must be the queer funny place. 



THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 441 

HENRY HiNDE. But Catholics have souls to be saved, the 
same as Protestants. We should never make little of them 
that has not been born so enlightened as ourselves. 

MRS. GATHER. Aw, indeed, many's the time I've said that. 
Sure, there's good and bad alike in all religions. 

HENRY HINDE. There's no bad in my religion, Mrs. Gather. 
There's no room for bad where God is. 

MRS. GATHER. Aw, Well, maybe you're right. 

HENRY HINDE. I am. 

MRS. GATHER. But sure, it's not worth fighting about. Maybe, 

we're all wrong. You never know. 
WILLIAM GATHER. I wish Maggie was here till we tell her. 
MRS. GATHER. I hope she'll have you all right, Henry. 
SAMUEL HINDE. Have him! Of course, she'll have him! 

She's not daft, is she? 
HENRY HINDE. She's not in a position to choose, Mrs. 

Gather. A woman that's had a bastard! .... 
MRS. GATHER. Aw, don't Say it, Henry! 
WILLIAM GATHER. You Were its father anyway. If there's 

no choosing for her, there's no choosing for you. 
HENRY HINDE. There's no choosing for either of us. It's 

the will of God. 
SAMUEL HINDE. But all the same she gets the best of it. 

Look at him — look at the way he's dressed. Like any 

gentleman ! And him got a shop, and two assistants, and 

a vanman, and could marry a minister's daughter if he 

liked. I don't think there's much doubt about who's 

being favoured by the Almighty. 
WILLIAM GATHER. Maybe, Sam, maybe. 

[He goes to the door and looks out anxiously. 
MRS. GATHER. Will you be married soon, Henry? 
HENRY HINDE. As soou as possiblc. I'll tell Mr. Macmillan 

the night before I go, and I'll come over again in a month's 

time, and marry her. 
WILLIAM GATHER. Here's Maggie now. 
HENRY HINDE. I'm glad to hear it. 

[Maggie Gather enters, wearing a plaid shawl over her head. 



442 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 

She enters hurriedly, throwing the shawl aside as she does so. 

She does not see Henry Hinde at first. 
MAGGIE GATHER {to Samuel Hinde). Is that you, Mr. Hinde? 

(She sees Henry.) Henry ! ( There is a short, painful pause, 

but she recovers herself) I hope you're well. 
HENRY HINDE. I'm Well enough, thank you. 
MRS. GATHER. What kept you, Maggie.'' You're queer and 

long getting back. 
MAGGIE GATHER. I was kept longer nor I thought. I hurried 

home as quick as I could. {To Henry) I suppose you're 

over for your holidays. 
WILLIAM GATHER. Maggie, dear, Henry's come back. 
MAGGIE GATHER. So I scc, father. 
WILLIAM GATHER. He's comc back to make you an offer. 

MAGGIE GATHER. A what.'' 

WILLIAM GATHER. He wauts to marry you. 

[She looks from one to the other like one who does not quite un- 
derstand what is being said. Then she turns away, laughing. 

MRS. GATHER. What are you laughing for anyway.? Sure, 
it's in earnest he is. 

MAGGIE GATHER. Henry, is it true you've come back to 
marry me? 

HENRY HINDE. Aye, it is. And now you know, I'll just go 
and tell the minister to arrange for the wedding. I've got 
to catch the boat back to Liverpool the night, and I 
haven't much time to lose. 

MAGGIE GATHER. It's ten ycars since you went away, Henry. 

HENRY HINDE. It is. 

MAGGIE GATHER. And now you've come back to marry me. 
HENRY HINDE. Aye. I'll be back in a month's time for the 

wedding. 
MAGGIE GATHER (pointing, with sudden fury, to her mother). 

Henry Hinde, do you see that old woman? 

HENRY HINDE. Aye, I do. 

MAGGIE GATHER. Do you remember nothing about her? 
Do you not mind her and me meeting you one night in 
the Cregagh Loaning before the child was born? 



THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 443 



HENRY HiNDE, Aye, I think I do. 

MAGGIE GATHER. Do you mind her begging you to marry 
me? 

HENRY HINDE, Aye. 

MAGGIE GATHER (the fury Still in her voice). Do you mind 
her going down on her knees to you, and begging you for 
the love of God to marry me? Do you mind me pleading 
with you, too.'' 

HENRY HINDE. Aye, I do, but what does that matter? 

MAGGIE GATHER. Do you mind what you said to us, Henry? 

HENRY HINDE. No, I forget. 

MAGGIE GATHER. You said I was a bad woman, and you 
weren't going to marry a whore! 

MRS. GATHER (whimpering). Maggie, for God's sake don't 
bring it all up again. 

HENRY HINDE. Aye, I do mind that. 

MAGGIE GATHER. If I was oue then, Henry, I'm one now. 
I'm just as you left me. 

HENRY HINDE. I'm uot asking what you are. I know what 
you are, and I know what I am too. I know what we all 
are before God — hell-deserving sinners. I've not come 
back for what you are. I've come back to marry you be- 
cause it's the will of God. 

MAGGIE GATHER. Well, it's uot my will, then. 

SAMUEL HINDE. Not your will. Woman, you mustn't set 
yourself up against God. 

MAGGIE GATHER. I'm not Setting myself up against God. 
I'm setting myself up against Henry. 

MRS. GATHER. Maggie, dear, hold your tongue, and talk 
sense. Sure, it's all for the best. 

WILLIAM GATHER. Leave her alone. 

i^^GGiE GATHER. Me and my mother did to you, Henry, 
what no woman should ever do to any man — we went 
down on our knees to you. Do you hear that? I pleaded 
with you to save me from shame, and you wouldn't. You 
ran away, and left me to face it myself. It wasn't easy 
to face either. My God, when I think of it! I couldn't 



444 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 

go to the Sabbath-school nor the meeting. Everybody 

knew I was going to have a child, and I wasn't married. 

I used to pretend there was nothing the matter with 

me. . . . Once the minister preached an awful sermon 

about the woman taken in sin. Aw, I felt that every 

eye in the place was on me. There was no pity, no 

mercy. 
HENRY HiNDE. Think of the mercy of God, Maggie. 
MAGGIE GATHER. I Couldn't See it. I could only see the 

disgrace and the shame. 
MRS. GATHER. Aw, but dou't think of it, Maggie. Sure, 

it's all over, now. Henry'll marry you, and you'll be all 

right again. 
MAGGIE GATHER. I wou't, I tell you, I won't. I'm not going 

to marry him. 
SAMUEL HINDE. Maggie Gather, you must be out of your 

mind. Do you know he's got a shop, and two assistants, 

and a vanman.-^ 
MAGGIE GATHER. I don't care if he's got fifty shops, and 

fifty thousand vanmen, I won't marry him. 
WILLIAM GATHER (soothingly) . Maggie! 
SAMUEL HINDE. Aye, and he could marry a minister's 

daughter if he liked. 
HENRY HINDE. Aw, hold your wheesht, father. Maggie, 

there's no one knows better nor I do what I've done. 

You've good reason to be angry and bitter, but I've not 

come back to make excuses. I'm a guilty sinner the same 

as you are, but I've been saved. Thank God for that! 

I've had a call from the Father, and I must answer the call 

at my soul's peril. 
MAGGIE GATHER. You'vc not comc back because you love 

me, then? 
HENRY HINDE. The lusts of the flesh I .... 
MAGGIE GATHER. Aw, stop, stop, man, stop. "I Want none 

of your religion. 
MRS. GATHER. Maggie, dear! .... 
WILLIAM GATHER. Lcavc her alone. 



THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 445 

SAMUEL HiNDE. I must Say I don't think your manners is 
very genteel, Maggie Gather. 

MAGGIE GATHER. Listen, Henry Hinde. All the time you 
were away in Liverpool where nobody knew you, I was 
here where everybody knew me. Do you know what that 
means? People staring at me, and turning up their noses 
at me? There was nothing but contempt for me at first. 
I was a bad woman, and I wasn't asked nowhere. Fellows 
in the street treated me like dirt beneath their feet. They 
spoke to me as if I was a bad woman. And all the time 
you were in Liverpool, and were thought a lot of. It 
wasn't fair. And it wasn't me only. I mind once I was 
coming down an entry, and I saw a lot of children tor- 
menting the child. He was standing in the middle of 
them, and they were making him say things after them. 
I heard them saying, "What are you, Willie?" And then 
they made him say, "I'm a wee bastard!" Aw, if I could 
have laid hands on you then, Henry, I would have throttled 
you. 

MRS. GATHER. But sure it's all over now. 

MAGGIE GATHER. Aye, they don't treat me with contempt 
now. I've lived that down. They just pity me now. 
Sometimes when I go past their doors, an old woman'll 
hear me passing, and ask who it is, and they always say, 
"It's only poor Maggie Gather." I could thole their 
contempt better nor their pity, but I didn't run away from 
either of them. I faced it all, and I've brought up the 
child as good as any of them. And now when I've bore 
the hardest of it, you come back to marry me. Maybe, 
you'll be ordering me about, and bossing the child. I'm 
to do what you tell me. I've to love, honour and 
obey you. What for, Henry, that's what I'd like to 
know? 

HENRY HINDE. I've come back at the command of God. 

WILLIAM GATHER. Maggie, dear, maybe you don't under- 
stand it all. You'd better think it over a bit. 

MAGGIE GATHER. I Understand perfectly, father. 



446 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 

WILLIAM GATHER. Aye, but Wait a bit, Maggie. There's 
more in it nor you think. The lad's getting big, you know, 
and the time'll soon be here when you'll lose your hold 
on him. You know, Maggie, every woman loses her grip 
on her man or her child some time or other, and it just 
depends on wee things whether they ever get it back again. 
The child needs a man to look after him. 

MAGGIE GATHER. Aren't you good enough for him? 

WILLIAM GATHER. I'm too old. Old men are worse nor 
old women for controlling young people. You are never 
controlled so well as you are by someone near your own 
age. He'll be leaving school in a year or two, and neither 
you nor me'll be any younger then. You want a man to 
look after him. 

MRS. GATHER. Aye, dear, indeed you do. 

MAGGIE GATHER. I can look after him myself. 

WILLIAM GATHER. No, you Can't. Not when he finds things 
out. It's the between age, Maggie, when men is neither 
boys nor men — the only time when men never cling to 
women. It's the time they go quickest to the devil. 

HENRY HiNDE. I was thinking myself of giving the lad a 
good schooling over in Liverpool. I had a feeling as I 
was coming over in the boat that maybe if I was to have 
the child trained for a minister, he could wipe out some of 
the debt I owe to God. 

MRS. GATHER. Do you hear that, Maggie! Henry's going 
to make a minister of Willie. Sure, the child'll be a credit 
to you yet. 

MAGGIE GATHER. He's a Credit to me now. 

WILLIAM GATHER. Aye, Maggie, he is. 

SAMUEL HINDE. I'm sure it's queer and considerate of Henry 
considering what he might do. 

MAGGIE GATHER. If I was to marry you, Henry, would you 
treat the child the same as you would one that was not 
a — not a . . . . 

HENRY HINDE. I'll treat him just the same as if he was a 
child of God instead of a child of sin. 



THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 447 

MAGGIE GATHER (bittemess returning to her voice). It wasn't 
his fault. 

HENRY HiNDE. The sins of the fathers are visited upon the 
children unto the third and fourth generation. 

MAGGIE GATHER. Aye, and you'll take damned good care 
my child doesn't escape. You'll hurt him, and say it's 
the will of God! . . . 

SAMUEL HINDE. Maggie Gather, your language is most un- 
becoming ! 

HENRY HINDE. She is posscssed of a devil, father. Leave 
her to me. I'll save her soul by the help of God. 

MRS. GATHER. Maggie, dear, say you'll have him. 

WILLIAM GATHER. It'll be all right for the child, Maggie. 

MAGGIE GATHER. I'll think about it. 

HENRY HINDE. I must know now. It's not me you're 
answering, it's God Himself. You can't put God off. 

WILLIAM GATHER. Maybe, if we were to leave Maggie to 
talk it over with you alone, Henry, you could both come 
to a decision. Jane and me'll just show your father a shed 
I'm putting up in the garden for the leather. Come on, 
Sam. 

SAMUEL HINDE (jovially). Aye, indeed, William, that's the 
queer good notion of yours. I was just going to make it 
myself. Aw, you know, when a man and a woman get 
together, sure, they like to be alone. It's a queer thing 
when you come to think it over; but there it is. Och, aye! 
human beings is a funny lot, William, they are that. 
Well, well, let's go and have a look at your shed. 
[Exit Samuel by the scullery. 

MRS. GATHER. Maggie, dear, you'll take him, won't you? 
Don't be proud with him. Men can't stand pride, Mag- 
gie. Just take him, dear, and he'll make you a respectable 
woman again. 

WILLIAM GATHER. Comc ou, woman, come on. All right, 
Maggie, all right. 
[They go out together. 
JLENRY HINDE. Maggie, I haven't much time. 



443 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 

MAGGIE GATHER. Did you cver love me, Henry? 

HENRY HiNDE. I suppose I liked you, Maggie. 

MAGGIE GATHER. But you don't love me now? 

HENRY HINDE. It's ten years since I saw you last. 

MAGGIE GATHER. Do you love this minister's daughter, your 

father was talking about? 
HENRY HINDE. That's neither here nor there, Maggie. 

When God tells us to put our desires aside, we've got to bow 

our heads and say, Thy Will, O Lord, not ours, be done. 
MAGGIE GATHER. Is she a good womau? 
HENRY HINDE. Aye, she is. 
MAGGIE GATHER. She nevcF had a child. 
HENRY HINDE. No, she's a good woman. 
MAGGIE GATHER. Shc's worthy of you, maybe. 
HENRY HINDE. Aye, she is. She's worthy of any good man. 
MAGGIE GATHER. And I suppose I'm not worthy of you. 
HENRY HINDE. You have fallen short of the glory of God. 
MAGGIE GATHER. We both fell at the same time, Henry. 
HENRY HINDE. I'm saved and you're not. I'm in a state 

of grace, and you're in a state of sin. 
MAGGIE GATHER. Then I'm not as good as you are? 
HENRY HINDE. No, you're not. 
MAGGIE GATHER. If I was saved, too, would I be as good as 

you are? 
HENRY HINDE. That's for God to say, Maggie, not me. 
MAGGIE GATHER. Do you think I'd be as good as you? Leave 

God out of it for a minute. If I committed a sin, you 

committed one, too. 
HENRY HINDE. I'm not denying it. 
MAGGIE GATHER. Aye, but you think I'm a bigger sinner nor 

you were; and if I was saved, too, you'd still think I was 

worse nor you, wouldn't you? 

HENRY HINDE. I WOuld. 

MAGGIE GATHER, Why WOuld yOU? 

HENRY HINDE. Because you're a woman. Because it was 
through women that sin first came into the world to damn 
the souls of men. Because it's women that keeps sin in 



THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 449 

the world with their shameful, lustful bodies. God Him- 
self came down from Heaven to save men from their sins, 
and suffered the pangs of hell that they might be saved, 
and sin be swept out of the world. But man turns from 
the high God to the low woman to his own damnation, 
and God may weep in His Heaven for the souls of men for 
ever, and no man will heed Him. Aw, the sin and the 
shame that women have brought into the world! Every 
soul that writhes in hell was sent there by a woman. 

MAGGIE GATHER. You Want to marry me, Henry? 

HENRY HiNDE, Because its a debt I owe to God. If I 
could save your soul I'd be paying Him back. 

MAGGIE GATHER. And if I don't marry you? 

HENRY HINDE. I shall havc tried all the same. I can do 
no more. 

MAGGIE GATHER. Henry, you're worse nor I thought you. 
You're not thinking of me, nor the wrong you did. It's 
yourself you're thinking of. You're afraid of God, and 
you want to use me to buy Him off. You can well call 
yourself a God-fearing man, Henry. I'm nothing to you. 
The child you're the father of is nothing to you. You're 
just frightened out of your wits for fear you should go to 
hell for all you're saved. I won't marry you. I'm as 
good as you are for all I'm not saved. I'm better nor you 
are, for I'm not afraid of God. (She goes to the door lead- 
ing to the scullery) Come on in, will you. 
[Samuel, Jane and William enter in the order named. 

MRS. GATHER. Havc you took him, yet? 

MAGGIE GATHER. No. Father, I've decided not to marry 
Henry. 

WILLIAM GATHER. You're surc, Maggie? 

MAGGIE GATHER. I am, father. 

WILLIAM GATHER. Maybe, you know best, Maggie. 

MRS. GATHER. William Gather, will you stand there and let 
your daughter make a fool of herself? 

SAMUEL HINDE. I must say I think you're right, Mrs. 
Gather. 



450 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 

WILLIAM GATHER. We don't Want to know what you think, 
Sam. Jane, you needn't say any more. 

MRS. GATHER. I will say more. I've been patient all these 
years, and said nothing, but I'll be patient no more. 
We're a shamed family. Yes, we are. A bastard in the 
house! There never was no shame in my family, no, nor 
yours either, William Gather, before Maggie. 

WILLIAM GATHER. Well, Well, it Can't be helped. 

MRS. GATHER. And when she has a chance of putting herself 
right, and making a respectable woman of herself, she 
hangs back, and won't take it. And you stand by, and let 
her do it. 

MAGGIE GATHER. I am a respectable woman. 

MRS. GATHER. You're not, you know you're not. You're a 
bad woman, you know you are. Maybe, if the truth was 
known, you led this good man into the trouble! 

WILLIAM GATHER. Hold your tongue, woman! My God, if 
you speak like that, I'll strike you down. 

MRS. GATHER. I'm your wife, William Gather, and I've been 
a good wife to you, too. I've submitted to you in every- 
thing since we were married. I've stood by, and bore cuts 
from people that was lower-born nor me because of Mag- 
gie. I've stood them without saying anything because 
you told me to. But I hoped and prayed to God that 
some day Henry 'd come back, and make her a respectable 
woman again. I was that glad when he came in with 
Sam, and said he'd marry her! — and now, — aw, William, 
William, make her marry him. Henry, you'll take her 
still, won't you? 

HENRY HiNDE. Aye, I'll take her still. 

SAMUEL HINDE. I'm sure it's very magnanimous of you, 
Henry, after the way you've been treated. 

WILLIAM GATHER. It's for Maggie to say, not for me. 

MRS. GATHER. Ask her again, Henry. 

HENRY HINDE. Maggie Gather, I solemnly ask you before 
God your Maker, to marry me. 

JMAGGIE GATHER. JNo. 



THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 451 

HENRY HiNDE. I'll givc you another chance, Maggie. Will 
you marry me? 

MAGGIE GATHER. No. 

SAMUEL HINDE. Well, I suppose there's nothing for it, but 

to go home. It's a pity you wasted your money coming 

over, Henry. 
MRS. GATHER. No, don't go yet, Henry. Give her time to 

think it over. When she sees the child she'll change her 

mind. I'll go and get him. 
WILLIAM GATHER. Stay whcrc you are. 
HENRY HINDE. Maggie, for the last time, will you marry me? 
MAGGIE GATHER. Am I as good as you? 
HENRY HINDE. You know what I said before. Will you 

marry me? 

MAGGIE GATHER. No, no, UO. 

HENRY HINDE. Very well, then, Maggie, I'll just say 
good-bye. 

SAMUEL HINDE. That's your last chance, my lady. You'll 
get no more. Heth, you're a fine one to be putting on 
airs. Anyone would think you were a decent woman by 
the way you talk. 

WILLIAM GATHER. Samucl Hinde, if you don't want to be 
hurried before your Maker before your time, you'll get 
out of this house without another word. 

SAMUEL HINDE. Aw, indeed. I like the conceit of you. 
That man could buy and sell you and your daughter 
twice over, and not notice it. He's a gentleman, and 
could marry the daughter of a minister, but he's good 
enough to come and offer to marry the daughter of a 
cobbler that's disgraced herself; and he's treated like dirt. 
A man that has a shop and two assistants! .... 

WILLIAM GATHER. Aye, wc heard all that before, Sam. 
You needn't wait any longer. 

SAMUEL HINDE. Come ou, Henry. Sure, you're only de- 
meaning yourself here. 

HENRY HINDE. I Came here to do the will of God. I've 
done my best. {He shuts his eyes and prays) Lord, Thou 



452 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 

knowest the weakness of Thy servant. If I have failed 
to move this sinful woman's heart through lustful desires 
after another, forgive me, O Lord, for Thy Name's Sake. 
Amen. I'll say good-bye, to you, William. If we should 
never meet on this side of eternity, I would bid you con- 
sider this. What Shall It Profit a Man if He Gain the 
Whole World and Lose His Own Soul? Good-bye to 
you all. 
[Samuel and Henry Hinde go out together. 

MAGGIE GATHER. Was I wrong, father? 

WILLIAM GATHER. God Only knows, Maggie. 

MRS. GATHER. It's a sin, it's a sin. To throw away the 
chance of being respectable. 

MAGGIE GATHER. There isn't much difference between you 
and me, mother. You've had a child, and so have I. 

MRS. GATHER. I'm a married woman. 

MAGGIE GATHER. You've Only been to the minister, and I 
haven't. There's not much difference between us. Maybe, 
I'm a better woman nor you. I had a son, and you only 
had a girl. 

MRS. GATHER (in dreadfid fury as though she would strike her 
daughter). How dare you? How dare you make a mock 
of me? 

WILLIAM GATHER. Jane, woman, you forget yourself. 
You're an old woman. You shouldn't be so bitter, 
Maggie. 

MRS. GATHER. Why Wouldn't you marry him? Wasn't he 
good enough? 

MAGGIE GATHER. He was too good. If you heard what he 
said to me. He said I was a sinful, lustful woman, and 
could never be as good as he is. It wasn't me he was 
thinking of; it was himself. I'm not needing to marry, 
but if I do, I'll marry to save my own soul, and not Henry 
Hinde's. 

WILLIAM GATHER. Aw, Well, dear, it doesn't matter about 
Henry. Maybe, you were right not to have him. 
[He pats her affectionately on the shoulder. 



THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 453 

MAGGIE GATHER. I hope I was, father. 

WILLIAM GATHER. I hope SO, dear. You never know. 
[He goes out through the scullery door to the garden. Maggie 
takes up her shawl, and goes into the bedroom, leaving Mrs. 
Gather weeping by the fire. 



THE GOLDEN DOOM 

LORD DUNSANY 

The chief biographical source-book on Lord Dunsany is 
Edward Hale Bierstadt's "Dunsany the Dramatist." As 
Mr. Bierstadt's book, in its latest revised form, has the 
official sanction of the dramatist, it will be sufficient to select 
a few passages for quotation. 

Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett is the "eighteenth 
Baron of his line, and his name and ancestry are said to be 
the third oldest in Irish history. In 1899 he succeeded to 
the title, and to the family estates in Meath. . . . Born in 
1878, Lord Dunsany was educated at Eaton and Sandhurst, 
and then entered the army. He saw active service . . . 
during the South African war . . ." Dunsany was first 
heard of in connection with the Irish literary movement in 
1902 or 1903, while his first book was published in 1905. But 
"his first play did not appear until 1909, when 'The Glit- 
tering Gate' was put on at the Abbey Theater, Dublin. 
'King Argimenes and the Unknown Warrior' followed in 
February of 1911 at the Abbey, and the next June 'The 
Gods of the Mountain ' went on at the Haymarket Theater, 
London." 

While certain Dunsany plays were produced in America 
before 1916, it was not until Stuart Walker (Season 1916- 
1917) offered a series of Dunsany productions that the dra- 
matist became popular. For three seasons Dunsany plays 
were to be seen on the stages of dozens of little theaters 
throughout the country. 

"Something must be wrong," says Dunsany in an article 
on "Romance and the Modern Stage ", "with an age whose 



456 THE GOLDEN DOOM 

drama deserts romance." This statement includes one 
half of Dunsany's theory of art. The other half he phrases 
as follows: "Romance is so inseparable from life that all we 
need to obtain romantic drama is for the dramatist to find 
any age and any country where life is not too thickly veiled 
and cloaked with puzzles and conventions, in fact to find a 
people that is not in the agonies of self-consciousness. For 
myself, I think that it is simpler to imagine such a people, 
as it saves the trouble of reading to find a romantic age, or 
the trouble of making a journey to lands where there is no 
press." 

Of "The Golden Doom" Mr. Bierstadt says: "It is the 
poet rather than the dramatist who speaks in ' The Golden 
Doom.' It may be observed though that it is no personal 
problem with which we are confronted, it rarely is with 
Dunsany. ... It is Boyhood in the mass, nay, even in 
the abstract with which we are called upon to sympathize; 
it is the idea of Majesty which we are asked to pity. It is 
man in the conglomerate whole with which we are dealing, 
not an individual man." 

PLAYS 

*The Glittering Gate (1909) *Fame and the Poet (1918) 

King Argimenes and the *The Prince of Stamboul 

Unknown Warrior (1911) (1918) . 

The Gods of the Mountain The Laughter of the Gods 

(1911) (1919) 

*The Golden Doom (1912) *The Murderers (1919) 

*The Lost Silk Hat (1913) *A Good Bargain (1920) 

The Tents of the Arabs *The Compromise of the 

(1914) King of the Golden Isles 

*A Night at an Inn (1916) (1920) 
*The Queen's Enemies (1916) 

"The Gods of the Mountain", "The Golden Doom", 
"King Argimenes and the Unknown Warrior", "The Glit- 



THE GOLDEN DOOM 457 

tering Gate", and "The Lost Silk Hat" are published as 
"Five Plays", by Little, Brown and Company, Boston; 
"The Tents of the Arabs", "The Laughter of the Gods", 
"The Queen's Enemies", and "A Night at an Inn" as 
"Plays of Gods and Men ", by John W. Luce and Company, 
Boston. 

References: Edward Hale Bierstadt, "Dunsany the 
Dramatist" (new and revised edition, 1919), Little, Brown 
and Company, Boston; Clayton Hamilton, "Seen on the 
Stage," Henry Holt and Company, New York; Dunsany's 
"Nowadays", Four Seas Company, Boston. 

Magazines: The Forum, May, 1914, New York; February, 
1915; Current Opinion, June, 1916, New York; The Bellman, 
Minneapolis, 1917. 



THE GOLDEN DOOM 



By lord DUNSANY 



"The Golden Doom" was first produced at London in 
1912. 

Characters 

The King 

Chamberlain 

Chief Prophet 

Girl 

Boy 

Spies 

First Prophet 

Second Prophet 

First Sentry 

Second Sentry 

Stranger 

Attendants 

Scene : Outside the King's great door in Zericon. 
Time: Some while before the fall of Babylon. 



CoPTBiaHT, 1914, BY Little, Beown, and Company. 
All dramatic rights reserved by the author. 

Reprinted, by permission of author and publisher, from "Five Plays", published 
by Little, Brown and Company, Boston. 

No performance of "The Golden Doom", either professional or_ amateur, may 
be given without the written permission of the owner of the acting rights, who may 
be addressed in care of the publishers. Little. Brown and Company. 



THE GOLDEN DOOM 

Two Sentries 'pace to and fro, then halt, one on each side of 

the great door. 

FIRST SENTRY. The day is deadly sultry. 

SECOND SENTRY. I would that I Were swimming down the 
Gyshon, on the cool side, under the fruit trees. 

FIRST SENTRY. It is like to thunder or the fall of a dynasty. 

SECOND SENTRY. It will grow cool by night-fall. Where is 
the King? 

FIRST SENTRY. He rows in his golden barge with ambassa- 
dors or whispers with captains concerning future wars. 
The stars spare him ! 

SECOND SENTRY. Why do you say "the stars spare him"? 

FIRST SENTRY. Bccausc if a doom from the stars fall sud- 
denly on a king it swallows up his people and all things 
round about him, and his palace falls and the walls of his 
city and citadel, and the apes come in from the woods and 
the large beasts from the desert, so that you would not 
say that a king had been there at all. 

SECOND SENTRY. But why should a doom from the stars 
fall on the King? 

FIRST SENTRY. Because he seldom placates them. 

SECOND SENTRY. Ah ! I have heard that said of him. 

FIRST SENTRY. Who are the stars that a man should scorn 
them? Should they that rule the thunder, the plague 
and the earthquake withhold these things save for much 
prayer? Always ambassadors are with the King, and his 
commanders, come in from distant lands, prefects of cities 
and makers of the laws, but never the priests of the stars. 

SECOND SENTRY. Hark! Was that thunder? 

FIRST SENTRY. Believe me, the stars are angry. 

[Enter a Stranger. He wanders toward the King^s door, 
gazing about him. 



462 THE GOLDEN DOOM 

SENTRIES (lifting their spears at him). Go back! Go back! 

STRANGER. Why? 

FIRST SENTRY. It is death to touch the King's door. 
STRANGER. I am a stranger from Thessaly. 
FIRST SENTRY. It is death even for a stranger. 
STRANGER. Your door is strangely sacred. 
FIRST SENTRY. It is death to touch it. 

[ The Stranger wanders off. Enter two children hand in hand. 
BOY {to the Sentry) . I want to see the King to pray for a hoop. 

[The Sentry smiles. 
BOY {pushes the door; to girl). I cannot open it. {To 

the Sentry) Will it do as well if I pray to the King's 

door? 
SENTRY. Yes, quite as well. {Turns to talk to the other 

Sentry) Is there anyone in sight? 
SECOND SENTRY {shading his eyes). Nothing but a dog, and 

he far out on the plain. 
FIRST SENTRY. Then we can talk awhile and eat bash. 
BOY. King's door, I want a little hoop. 

[The Sentries take a little hash between finger and thumb from 

pouches and put that wholly forgotten drug to their lips. 
GIRL (pointing). My father is a taller soldier than that. 
BOY. My father can write. He taught me. 
GIRL. Ho! Writing frightens nobody. My father is a 

soldier. 
BOY. I have a lump of gold. I found it in the stream that 

runs down to Gyshon. 
GIRL. I have a poem. I found it in my own head. 
BOY. Is it a long poem? 
GIRL. No. But it would have been only there were no more 

rhymes for sky. 
BOY. What is your poem? 

GIRL. 

I saw a purple bird 

Go up against the sky 
And it went up and up 

And round about did fly. 



THE GOLDEN DOOM 463 

BOY. I saw it die. 

GIRL. That doesn't scan. 

BOY. Oh, that doesn't matter. 

GIRL. Do you Uke my poem? 

BOY. Birds aren't purple. 

GIRL. My bird was. 

BOY. Oh ! 

GIRL. Oh, you don't like my poem! 

BOY. Yes, I do. 

GIRL. No, you don't; you think it horrid. 

BOY. No. I don't. 

GIRL. Yes, you do. Why didn't you say you liked it? It 

is the only poem I ever made. 
BOY. I do like it. I do like it. 
GIRL. You don't, you don't! 

BOY. Don't be angry. I'll write it on the door for you. 
GIRL. You'll write it? 
BOY. Yes, I can write it. My father taught me. I'll write 

it with my lump of gold. It makes a yellow mark on the 

iron door. 
GIRL. Oh, do write it! I would like to see it written like 

real poetry. 

[The Boy begins to write. The Girl watches. 
FIRST SENTRY. You sec. We'll be fighting again soon. 
SECOND SENTRY. Only a little war. We never have more 

than a little war with the hill-folk. 
FIRST SENTRY. When a man goes to fight, the curtains 

of the gods wax thicker than ever before between his 

eyes and the future; he may go to a great or to a little 

war. 
SECOND SENTRY. There can only be a little war with the 

hill-folk. 
FIRST SENTRY. Yet Sometimes the gods laugh. 

SECOND SENTRY. At whom? 
FIRST SENTRY. At kings. 

SECOND SENTRY. Why havc you grown uneasy about this 
war in the hills? 



464 THE GOLDEN DOOM 

FIRST SENTRY. Because the King is powerful beyond any of 
his fathers, and has more fighting men, more horses, and 
wealth than could have ransomed his father and his grand- 
father and dowered their queens and daughters; and every 
year his miners bring him more from the opal-mines and 
from the turquoise-quarries. He has grown very mighty. 

SECOND SENTRY. Then he will the more easily crush the 
hill-folk in a little war. 

FIRST SENTRY. When kings grow very mighty the stars grow 
very jealous. 

BOY. I've written your poem. 

GIRL. Oh, have you really? 

BOY. Yes, I'll read it to you. {He reads) 

I saw a purple bird 

Go up against the sky 
And it went up and up 

And round about did fly. 
I saw it die. 

GIRL. It doesn't scan. 

BOY. That doesn't matter. 

[Enter furtively a Spy, who crosses stage and goes out. The 
Sentries cease to talk. 

GIRL. That man frightens me. 

BOY. He is only one of the King's spies. 

GIRL. But I don't like the King's spies. They frighten me. 

BOY. Come on, then, we'll run away. 

SENTRY {noticing the children again). Go away, go away! 
The King is coming, he will eat you. 
[The Boy throws a stone at the Sentry and runs out. Enter 
another Spy, who crosses the stage. Enter third Spy, who 
notices the door. He examines it and utters an owl-like 
whistle. No. 2 comes hack. They do not speak. Both 
whistle. No. S comes. All examine the door. Enter the 
King and his Chamberlain. The King wears a purple robe. 
The Sentries smartly transfer their spears to their left hands 
and return their right arms to their right sides. They then 



THE GOLDEN DOOM 465 

lower their spears until their points are within an inch of 
the ground, at the same time raising their right hands above 
their heads. They stand for some moments thus. Then 
they lower their right arms to their right sides, at the same 
time raising their spears. In the next motion they take their 
spears into their right hands and lower the butts to the floor, 
where they were before, the spears slanting forward a little. 
Both Sentries must move together precisely. 

FIRST SPY {runs forward to the King and kneels, abasing his 
forehead to the floor). Something has written on the iron 
door. 

CHAMBERLAIN. On the iron door! 

KING. Some fool has done it. Who has been here since 
yesterday? 

FIRST SENTRY (sMfts Ms hand a little higher on his spear, brings 
the spear to his side and closes his heels all in one motion; he 
then takes one pace backward with his right foot; then he 
kneels on his right knee; when he has done this he speaks, 
but not before). Nobody, Majesty, but a stranger from 
Thessaly. 

KING. Did he touch the iron door? 

FIRST SENTRY. No, Majesty; he tried to, but we drove him 
away. 

KING. How near did he come? 

FIRST SENTRY. Nearly to our spears, Majesty. 

KING. What was his motive in seeking to touch the iron 
door? 

FIRST SENTRY. I do uot kuow, Majcsty. 

KING. Which way did he go? 

FIRST SENTRY {pointing left). That way. Majesty, an hour 
ago. 

[The King whispers urith one of his Spies, who stoops and 
examines the ground and steals away. The Sentry rises. 

KING {to his two remaining Spies). What does this writing 
say? 

A SPY. We cannot read. Majesty. 

KING. A good spy should know everything. 



466 THE GOLDEN DOOM 

SECOND SPY. We watch, Majesty, and we search out. Ma- 
jesty. We read shadows, and we read footprints, and 
whispers in secret places. But we do not read writing. 

KING (to the Chamberlain). See what it is. 

CHAMBERLAIN {goes wp and reads). It is treason, Majesty. 

KING. Read it. 

CHAMBERLAIN. ^ i , • i 

1 saw a purple bird 

Go up against the sky, 
And it went up and up 

And round about did fly. 
I saw it die. 

FIRST SENTRY (aside). The stars have spoken. 

KING (to the Sentry). Has anyone been here but the stranger 
from Thessaly? 

SENTRY (kneeling as before). Nobody, Majesty. 

KING. You saw nothing? 

FIRST SENTRY. Nothing but a dog far out upon the plain and 
the children of the guard at play. 

KING (to the Second Sentry). And you? 

SECOND SENTRY (kneeling). Nothing, Majesty. 

CHAMBERLAIN. That is strange. 

KING. It is some secret warning. 

CHAMBERLAIN. It is trcasou. 

KING. It is from the stars. 

CHAMBERLAIN. No, no. Majesty. Not from the stars, not 
from the stars. Some man has done it. Yet the thing 
should be interpreted. Shall I send for the prophets of 
the stars? 
[The King beckons to his Spies. They run up to him. 

KING. Find me some prophet of the stars. (Exeunt Spies) 
I fear that we may go no more, my chamberlain, along 
the winding ways of unequalled Zericon, nor play dahoori 
with the golden balls. I have thought more of my people 
than of the stars and more of Zericon than of windy 
Heaven. 

CHAMBERLAIN. Belicve me, Majesty, some idle man has 



THE GOLDEN DOOM 467 



written it and passed by. Your spies shall find him, and 

then his name will be soon forgotten. 
KING. Yes, yes. Perhaps you are right, though the sen- 
tries saw no one. No doubt some beggar did it. 
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, Majesty, some beggar has surely done 

it. But look, here come two prophets of the stars. They 

shall tell us that this is idle. 

[Enter two Prophets and a Boy attending them. All bow 

deeply to the King. The two Spies steal in again and stand 

at back. 
KING. Some beggar has written a rhyme on the iron gate, 

and as the ways of rhyme are known to you I desired you, 

rather as poets than as prophets, to say whether there was 

any meaning in it. 
CHAMBERLAIN. 'Tis but an idle rhyme. 
FIRST PROPHET {bows again and goes up to door. He glances 

at the writing). Come hither, servant of those that serve 

the stars. 

[Attendant approaches. 
FIRST PROPHET. Bring hither our golden cloaks, for this may 

be a matter for rejoicing; and bring our green cloaks also, 

for this may tell of young new beautiful things with which 

the stars will one day gladden the King; and bring our 

black cloaks also, for it may be a doom, (Exit the Boy; 

the Prophet goes up to the door and reads solemnly) The 

stars have spoken. 

[Reenter Attendant with cloaks. 
KING. I tell you that some beggar has written this. 
FIRST PROPHET. It is Written in pure gold. 

[He dons the black cloak over body and head. 
KING. What do the stars mean? What warning is it? 
FIRST PROPHET. I cauuot say. 
KING {to Second Prophet). Come you then and tell us what 

the warning is. 
SECOND PROPHET (gocs vp to tJw door and reads). The stars 

have spoken. 

[He cloaks himself in black. 



468 THE GOLDEN DOOM 

KING. What is it? What does it mean? 

SECOND PROPHET. We do not know, but it is from the stars. 

CHAMBERLAIN. It is a harmless thing; there is no harm in 
it, Majesty. Why should not birds die? 

KING. Why have the prophets covered themselves in black? 

CHAMBERLAIN. They are a secret people and look for inner 
meanings. There is no harm in it. 

KING. They have covered themselves in black. 

CHAMBERLAIN. They have not spoken of any evil thing. 
They have not spoken of it. 

KING. If the people see the prophets covered in black they 
will say that the stars are against me and believe that my 
luck has turned. 

CHAMBERLAIN. The people must not know. 

KING. Some prophet must interpret to us the doom. Let 
the chief prophet of the stars be sent for. 

CHAMBERLAIN (going toward left exit). Summon the chief 
prophet of the stars that look on Zericon. 

VOICES OFF. The chief prophet of the stars. The chief 
prophet of the stars. 

CHAMBERLAIN. I havc summoucd the chief prophet, 
Majesty. 

KING. If he interpret this aright I will put a necklace of 
turquoises round his neck with opals from the mines. 

CHAMBERLAIN. He will uot fail. He is a very cunning in- 
terpreter. 

KING. What if he covers himself with a huge black cloak 
and does not speak and goes muttering away, slowly with 
bended head, till our fear spreads to the sentries and they 
cry aloud? 

CHAMBERLAIN. This is no doom from the stars, but some idle 
scribe hath written it in his insolence upon the iron door, 
wasting his hoard of gold. 

KING. Not for myself I have a fear of doom, not for my- 
self; but I inherited a rocky land, windy and ill-nurtured, 
and nursed it to prosperity by years of peace and spread 
its boundaries by years of war. I have brought up har- 



THE GOLDEN DOOM 469 

vests out of barren acres and given good laws unto naughty- 
towns, and my people are happy, and lo, the stars are 
angry ! 

CHAMBERLAIN. It is uot the stars, it is not the stars. Majesty, 
for the prophets of the stars have not interpreted it. 
Indeed, it was only some reveller wasting his gold. 
[Meanwhile enter Chief Prophet of the stars that look on 
Zericon. 

KING. Chief Prophet of the Stars that look on Zericon, I 
would have you interpret the rhyme upon yonder door. 

CHIEF PROPHET {goes wp to the door and reads). It is from the 
stars. 

KING. Interpret it and you shall have great turquoises 
round your neck, with opals from the mines in the frozen 
mountains. 

CHIEF PROPHET (cloaJcs himself like the others in a great black 
cloak). Who should wear purple in the land but a King, 
or who go up against the sky but he who has troubled the 
stars by neglecting their ancient worship? Such a one 
has gone up and up increasing power and wealth, such a 
one has soared above the crowns of those that went be- 
fore him, such a one the stars have doomed, the undying 
ones, the illustrious. 
[A pause. 

KING. Who wrote it? 

CHIEF PROPHET. It is pure gold. Some god has written it. 

CHAMBERLAIN. SomC god? 

CHIEF PROPHET. Some god whose home is among the un- 
dying stars. 

FIRST SENTRY (aside to the Second Sentry). Last night I saw 
a star go flaming earthward. 

KING. Is this a warning or is it a doom? 

CHIEF PROPHET. The stars have spoken. 

KING. It is, then, a doom? 

CHIEF PROPHET. They speak not in jest. 

KING. I have been a great King — Let it be said of me 
"The stars overthrew him, and they sent a god for his 



470 THE GOLDEN DOOM 

doom." For I have not met my equal among kings that 
man should overthrow me; and I have not oppressed my 
people that men should rise up against me. 

CHIEF PROPHET. It is better to give worship to the stars than 
to do good to man. It is better to be humble before the 
gods than proud in the face of your enemy though he do 
evil. 

KING. Let the stars hearken yet and I will sacrifice a child 
to them — I will sacrifice a girl child to the twinkling stars 
and a male child to the stars that blink not, the stars of 
the steadfast eyes. {To his Spies) Let a boy and girl be 
brought for sacrifice. {Exit a Spy to the right looking at 
footprints) Will you accept this sacrifice to the god that 
the stars have sent? They say that the gods love children. 

CHIEF PROPHET. I may refuse no sacrifice to the stars nor 
to the gods whom they send. {To the other Prophets) 
Make ready the sacrificial knives. 
[The Prophets draw knives and sharpen them. 

KING. Is it fitting that the sacrifice take place by the iron 
door where the god from the stars has trod, or must it be 
in the temple? 

CHIEF PROPHET. Let it be offered by the iron door. {To 
the other Prophets) Fetch hither the altar stone. 
[The owl-like whistle is heard off right. The Third Spy runs 
crouching toward it. Exit. 

KING. Will this sacrifice avail to avert the doom? 

CHIEF PROPHET. Who knows? 

KING. I fear that even yet the doom will fall. 

CHIEF PROPHET. It wcrc wisc to sacrificc some greater 
thing. 

KING. What more can a man offer? 

CHIEF PROPHET. His pride. 

KING. What pride? 

CHIEF PROPHET. Your pride that went up against the sky 
and troubled the stars. 

KING. How shall I sacrifice my pride to the stars? 

CHIEF PROPHET. It is upon your pride that the doom will 



THE GOLDEN DOOM 471 

fall, and will take away your crown and will take away 

your kingdom. 
KING. I will sacrifice my crown and reign uncrowned 

amongst you, so only I save my kingdom. 
CHIEF PROPHET. If you Sacrifice your crown which is your 

pride, and if the stars accept it, perhaps the god that they 

sent may avert the doom and you may still reign in your 

kingdom though humbled and uncrowned. 
KING. Shall I burn my crown with spices and with incense 

or cast it into the sea? 
CHIEF PROPHET. Let it be laid here by the iron door where 

the god came who wrote the golden doom. When he 

comes again by night to shrivel up the city or to pour an 

enemy in through the iron door, he will see your cast-off 

pride and perhaps accept it and take it away to the neg- 
lected stars. 
KING (to the Chamberlain). Go after my spies and say that 

I make no sacrifice. {Exit the Chamberlain to the right; 

the King takes off his crown) Good-bye, my brittle glory; 

kings have sought you; the stars have envied you. 

{The stage grows darker. 
CHIEF PROPHET. Eveu uow the sun has set who denies the 

stars, and the day is departed wherein no gods walk abroad. 

It is near the hour when spirits roam the earth and all 

things that go unseen, and the faces of the abiding stars 

will be soon revealed to the fields. Lay your crown there 

and let us come away. 
KING {lays his crown before the iron door; then to the Sentries) . 

Go ! And let no man come near the door all night. 
THE SENTRIES (kneeling). Yes, Majesty. 

[They remain kneeling until after the King has gone. King 

and the Chief Prophet loalk away. 
CHIEF PROPHET. It was your pride. Let it be forgotten. 

May the stars accept it. 

'Exeunt left. The Sentries rise. 
FIRST SENTRY. The stars have envied him ! 
SECOND SENTRY. It is an ancient crown. He wore it well. 



472 THE GOLDEN DOOM 

FIRST SENTRY. Mav the stars accept it. 

SECOND SENTRY. If they do not accept it what doom will 
overtake him? 

FIRST SENTRY. It will Suddenly be as though there were 
never any city of Zericon nor two sentries like you and me 
standing before the door. 

SECOND SENTRY. Why! How do you know? 

FIRST SENTRY. That is evcr the way of the gods. 

SECOND SENTRY. But it is unjust. 

FIRST SENTRY. How should the gods know that? 

SECOND SENTRY. Will it happen to-night? 

FIRST SENTRY. Come! we must march away. 

[Exeunt right. The stage grows increasingly darker. Re- 
enter the Chamberlain from the right. He walks across the 
Stage and goes out to the left. Reenter Spies from the right. 
They cross the stage, which is now nearly dark. 

BOY (enters from the right, dressed in white, his hands out a 
little, crying). King's door, King's door, I want my little 
hoop. (He goes up to the King's door. When he sees the 
King's crown there, he utters a satisfied) 0-oh! 
[He takes it up, puts it on the ground, and, beating it before 
him with the sceptre, goes out by the way that he entered. 
The great door opens; there is light within; a furtive Spy slips 
out and sees that the crown is gone. Another Spy slips out. 
Their crouching heads come close together. 

FIRST SPY (hoarse whisper). The gods have come! 

[2'hey run back through the door and the door is closed. It 
opens again and the King and the Chamberlain come through. 

KING. The stars are satisfied. 

CURTAIN 



BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 

The literature on modem English and Irish drama, collected and uncol- 
lected, has of late years so increased in bulk, that an even fairly comprehen- 
sive bibliography would fill a large volume. Such a bibliography, even if 
it existed, would not be required by the readers of this book. The following 
notes are intended merely as a guide to the reader who wishes to know 
where to turn for detailed information on modern English and Irish drama. 
Practically all the dramatists whose works are included in this volume are 
treated or at least touched upon in some of the books mentioned, so that it 
has not been thought worth while repeating the titles of such general works 
as Thomas H. Dickinson's "Contemporary Drama of England ", Ernest A. 
Boyd's "Contemporary Drama of Ireland ", and kindred studies. 



GENERAL WORKS, DEVOTED IN PART TO MOD- 
ERN ENGLISH AND IRISH DRAMA 

Archer, William. "Playmaking." Small, Maynard and Company, Boston. 

Baker, George P. "Dramatic Technique." Houghton Mifflin Company, 
Boston. 

Cannan, Gilbert. "The Joy of the Theater." E. P. Dutton and Company, 
New York. 

Carter, Huntley. "The New Spirit in Drama and Art." Mitchell Kennerley, 
New York. 

Chandler, F. W. "Aspects of Modern Drama." Macmillan Company, New 
York. 

Cheney, Sheldon. "The New Movement in the TheateJ." Mitchell Ken- 
nerley, New York. 

Dukes, Ashley. "Modern Dramatists." Sergei, Chicago. 

Goldmann, Emma. "The Social Significance of the Modem Drama." 
Richard G. Badger, Boston. 

Hale, Jr., Edward Everett. "Dramatists of Today." Henry Holt and Com- 
pany, New York. 

Hamilton, Clayton. "The Theory of the Theater." Henry Holt and Com- 
pany, New York. 

Henderson, Archibald. "The Changing Drama." Stewart and Kidd, 
Cincinnati. 
"European Dramatists." Stewart and Kidd, Cincinnati. 

Lewisohn, Ludwig. "The Modern Drama." B. W. Huebsch, New York. 

Matthews, Brander. "A Study of the Drama." Houghton Mifflin Company, 
Boston. 

Moderwell, H. K. "The Theater of Today." John Lane Company, New 
York. 

Palmer, John. "The Future of the Theater." George Bell and Sons, London. 

Phelps, '^'illiam Lyon. "The Twentieth Century Theater." Macmillan 
Company, New York. 



474 BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 

BOOKS DEVOTED EITHER EXCLUSIVELY OR 
PRINCIPALLY TO MODERN ENGLISH DRAMA 

Archer, William. "English Dramatists of Today." Sampson, Low, Marston 

and Company, London. 
Armstrong, Cecil F. "From Shakespeare to Shaw." Mills and Boon, 

London. 
Barker, Granville, and Archer, William. "Schemes and Estimates for a 

National Theater." DuflSeld and Company, New York. 
Borsa, Mario. "The English Stage of Today." John Lane Company, 

London. 
Clark, Barrett H. "The British and American Drama of Today." Stewart 

and Kidd, Cincinnati. 
Dickinson, Thomas H. "The Contemporary Drama of England." Little, 

Brown & Company, Boston. 
Filon, Augustin. "The English Stage." Dodd, Mead and Company, New 

York. 
Howe, P. P. "Dramatic Portraits." Mitchell Kennerley, New York. 

"The Repertory Theater." Mitchell Kennerley, New York. 
Jones, Henry Arthur. "The Renascence of the English Drama." Macmillan 

Company, London. 
"The Foundations of a National Drama." George H. Doran Company, 

New York. 
McCarthy, Desmond. "The Court Theater." A. H. Bullen, Stratford-on- 

Avon. 



BOOKS DEVOTED EITHER EXCLUSIVELY OR 
PRINCIPALLY TO MODERN IRISH DRAMA 

Boyd, E. A. "The Contemporary Drama of Ireland." Little, Brown and 

Company, Boston. 
"Ireland's Literary Renaissance." John Xane Company, New York. 
Gregory, Lady Augusta. "Our Irish Theater." G. P. Putnam's Sons, New 

York. ^ • 

Morris, Lloyd R. "The Celtic Dawn." Macmillan Company, New York. 
Weygandt. "Irish Plays and Playwrights." Houghton Mifflin Company, 

Boston. 
Yeats, W. B. "The Cutting of an Agate." Macmillan Company, New York. 



VOLUMES OF COLLECTED ESSAYS ON MODERN 
ENGLISH AND IRISH DRAMA, FOR THE 
MOST PART CONTEMPORARY RE- 
VIEWS OF PERFORMANCES 

Archer, William. "About the Theater." T. Fisher Un win, London. 
"Study and Stage." Grant Richards, London. 
"The Theatrical World." 5 vols. Walter Scott, London. 



BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 475 

Eaton, Walter Prichard. "Plays and Players." Stewart and Kidd, Cin- 
cinnati. 
George, W. L. "Dramatic Actualities." Sidgwick and Jackson, London. 
Grein, J. T. "Dramatic Criticism." John Long, London (1899). 

"Premieres of the Year." Macqueen, London (1900). 

"Dramatic Criticism." Greening and Company, London (1901). 

"Dramatic Criticism." Eve!ei.:i;h Nash, London (1904). 
Hamilton, Clayton. "Problems of the Playwright." Henry Holt and Com- 
pany, New York. 

"Seen on the Stage." Henry Holt and Company, New York. 

"Studies in Stagecraft." Henry Holt and Company, New York. 
Huneker, James. "Iconoclasts." Charles Scribner's Sons, New York. 

"The Pathos of Distance." Charles Scribner's Sons, New York. 
Montague, C. E. "Dramatic Values." Macmillan Company, New York. 
Moore, George. "Impressions and Opinions." Brentano's, New York. 
Scott, Clement. "Drama of Yesterday and Today." Macmillan Company, 

New York. 
S[pence], E. F. "Our Stage and Its Critics." Methuen and Company, 

London. 
Shaw, Bernard. "Dramatic Opinions and Essays." Brentano's, New York. 
Symons, Arthur. "Plays, Acting, and Music." E. P. Dutton and Company, 

New York. 
Titterton, W. R. "From Theater to Music Hall." Swift, London. 
Walbrook, H. M. "Nights at the Play." Ham-Smith, London. 
Walkley, A. B. "Playhouse Impressions." T. Fisher Unwin, London. 

"Drama and Life." Brentano's, New York. 

"Dramatic Criticism." John Murray, London. 

"Frames of Mind." Elkin Matthews, London. 



MISCELLANEOUS, INCLUDING BIBLIOGRAPHIES, 
ANTHOLOGIES, LISTS OF PLAYS, ETC. 

Clark, Barrett H. "How to Produce Amateur Plays." Little, Browa and 

Company, Boston. (Lists of plays and bibliographies.) 
"European Theories of the Drama." Stewart and Kidd, Cincinnati. 

(Bibliographies.) 
Dickinson, Thomas H. "Chief Contemporary Dramatists." Houghton 

MifHin Company, Boston. (Lists of plays and bibliographies.) 
Moses, Montrose J. "Representative British Dramas: Victorian and 

Modern." Little, Brown and Company, Boston. (Lists of plays 

and bibliographies.) 
Parker, John. "Who's Who in the Theater." Sir Isaac Pitman and Sons, 

London. (Biographies and lists of plays.) 
Shay, Frank. "The Plays and Books of the Little Theater." Frank Shay, 

New York. (BibliogTaphies and lists of plays.) 
Shay, Frank, and Loving. Pierre. "Fifty Contemporary One-act Plays." 

Stewart and Kidd, Cincinnati. (Lists of plays and bibliographies.) 
Tatlock, John S. P., and Martin, Robert G. "Representative English Plays." 

The Century Company, New York. (Lists of plays and bibliog- 
raphies.) 
"The Stage Year Book." (Annually) Carson and Comerford, London. 



476 BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 

ONE-ACT PLAYS BY ENGLISH AND IRISH 
DRAMATISTS 

A selection of some of the more interesting plays, not including 
those reprinted in the present volume. 

Baring, Maurice. " Catherine Parr." Farce. 
"The Greek Vase." Farce. 
"The Rehearsal." Farce. 

(Above plays in "Diminutive Dramas." Houghton 
Mifflin Company, Boston.) 
Barker, Granville. "Vote by Ballot." Comedy. 

(In "Three Short Plays." Little, Brown and Company, 
Boston.) 
Barrie, J. M. "Pantaloon." Fantasy. 

"The Twelve-Pound Look." Comedy. 
"Rosalind." Comedy. 

(Above plays in "Half Hours." Charles Scribiler's Sons, 
New York.) 
Bennett, Arnold. "A Good Woman." Farce. 
"A Question of Sex." Farce. 
(Above plays in "Polite Farces." George H. Doran Com- 
pany, New York.) 
Brighouse, Harold. "The Price of Coal." Serious. Le Roy Phillips, 

Boston. 
Caldei'on, George. "The Little Stone House." Serious. Sidgwick and 

Jackson, London. 
Cannan, Gilbert. "A Short Way with Authors." Farce. Le Roy Phillips, 
Boston. 
"Everybody's Husband." Fantasy. B. W. Huebsch, New 
York. 
Chapin, Harold. "Augustus in Search of a Father." Comedy. Gowans and 

Gray, London. 
Conrad, Joseph. "One Day More." Drama. Smart Set, New York, Feb- 
ruary, 1914. 
Down, Oliphant. "The Quod Wrangle." Farce. Samuel French, New York. 
Dowson, Ernest. "The Pierrot of the Minute." Fantasy. Samuel French, 

New York. 
Drinkwater, John. "The Storm." Serious. 

"X = O: A Drama of the Trojan War." Serious. 
(Above plays in "Pawns." Houghton Mifflin Company, 
Boston.) 
Dunsany, Lord. "The Lost Silk Hat." Comedy. 
"The Guttering Gate." Fantasy. 

(Above plays in "Five Plays." Little, Brown and Com- 
pany, Boston. 
"A Night at an Inn." Drama. 

(In "Plays of Gods and Men." John W. Luce and Com- 
pany, Boston.) 
Ervine, St. John. "The Orangeman." Serious. 

"The Critics." Farce. i 

(Above plays in "Four Irish Plays." Macmillan Company, 
New York.) 



BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 477 



Galsworthy, John. "The Little Man." Serious. 
"Hallmarked." Comedy. 

(Above plays in "The Little Man and other Satires." 
Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.) 
Gibson, Wilfrid Wilson. "Mates." Serious. 
"On the Road." Serious. 

(Above plays in "Daily Bread." Macmillan Company, 
New York.) 
Gregory, Lady Augusta. "Hyacinth Halvey." Farce. 
"The Jackdaw." Farce. 
"The Rising of the Moon." Fantasy. 
(Above plays in "Seven Short Plays." G. P. Putnam's 
Sons, New York.) 
Hankin, St. John. "The Constant Lover." Comedy. Theater Arts Magazine, 

New York, vol. 3, no. 2. 
Houghton, Stanley. "Phipps." Comedy. 

"The Fifth Commandment." Comedy. 
(Above plays in "Five One- Act Plays." Samuel French, 
New York.) 
Housman, Laurence. "As Good as Gold." Fantasy. Samuel French, New 
York. 
"Bird in Hand." Comedy. Samuel French, New York. 
"A Likely Story." Fantasy. Samuel French, New York. 
Jones, Henry Arthur. "Her Tongue." Serious. (In "The Theater of Ideas." 

George H. Doran Company, New York.) 
Masefield, John. "Mrs. Harrison." Serious. (In "The Tragedy of Nan." 

Macmillan Company, New York.) 
Morrison, Arthur. "That Brute Simmons." Comedy. Samuel French, 

New York. 
O'Brien, Seumas. "Duty." Comedy. 

"Magnanimity." Comedy. 

(Above plays in "Duty and Other Irish Comedies." Little, 

Brown and Company, Boston.) 
"Blind." Comedy. Egmont Arens, New York. 
Palmer, John. "Over the Hills." Comedy. Sidgwick and Jackson, London. 
Phillpotts, Eden. "The Point of View." Comedy. 
"The Hiatus." Comedy. 
"The Carrier Pigeon." Serious. 

(Above plays in "Curtain-Raisers," Brentano's, New York. 
Pinero, Sir Arthur. "Playgoers." Comedy. Samuel French, New York. 
Robins, Elizabeth. "Realities." Serious. (In "Makeshifts and Realities." 
T. Werner Laurie, London.) 
" 'Ilda's Honourable." Comedy. (In "Loving as We Do." 
T. Werner Laurie, London.) 
Shaw, Bernard. "Press Cuttings." Farce. Brentano's, New York. 

"How He Lied to Her Husband." Comedy. Brentano's, 
New York. 
Sowerby, Githa. "Before Breakfast." Comedy. Sidgwick and Jackson, 

London. 
Sutro, Alfred. "The Bracelet." Serious. Samuel French, New York. 

"The Open Door." Serious. Samuel French, New York. 
Y'eats, W, B. "A Pot of Broth." Farce. 

"Kathleen ni Houlihan." Serious. 

(Above plays in "Kathleen ni Houlihan." Macmillan 
Company, New York.) 



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